Harry Potter and the Brotherhood
by S3eK
Summary: Assassins and Templars have fought for years. His father was one, and his father's friends believe he'd be better off trained by them. Now at the Triwizard Tournament, Altaïr arrives to protect the school with his allies after the rise of Lord Voldemort is predicted. He is surprised however, to meet a woman who remembers him. Now he must juggle Templars, Fleur, and being Champion.
1. First Kill

**Privet Drive, November 2, 1981**

Three men in white coats walked up the lane of Privet Drive, heading for the home of the Dursley family.

"I've watched the family," said one, growling out the words through clenched teeth. "They are the scum of the universe, not worthy of any mercy."

"Be that as it may, Talal, we are not here for them. We have a promise to his father, our beloved comrade. We will fulfill it," said another, unconsciously clenching his fists. He had fought beside his brothers for many years. The recent loss of one hurt him immensely.

The third man nodded in agreement, leading the group up the driveway.

He knocked on the door and smiled at the woman who opened the door, smiling at him before realizing what he was.

"We are here for the boy…"

**Hogwarts, June 4, 1992…**

Against the starry night sky loomed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

An imposing building, a scary-looking castle with many towers stabbing into the sky like daggers planted hilt first into the ground. Magical lights streamed from its many windows, illuminating patches of the grass all around it, throwing shadows as a student or teacher would walk past, and highlighting the waves of the Black Lake where the giant squid made ripples.

The sloping grounds were all well kept, bushes clipped and trimmed into mystical animals, their shapes throwing shadows on the lawn. Gardens, well weeded and groomed, surrounded the castle. The Forbidden Forest loomed behind the groundskeeper's cabin, adding an air of mystery and danger to the castle.

The finery of the castle, however, was lost on the two figures, clothed in white, approaching the castle. Both had the cowls of their robes pulled over their heads, keeping the light from blinding them and hiding their faces. Brown leather made up their belts, a trio of straps connected by a triangle, boots, and bracers. The taller figure had a red sash tied around his waist, underneath his belt. Also his white over robe was longer than his companions, nearly reaching his ankles, rather than the knee length his comrade wore.

They both had swords at their waists, though the taller one had a more ornate sword, resembling a Syrian sword of old, and a number of daggers in sheaths on the right side of his belt, on his right shoulder spaulder, and at the top of his left boot.

Their bracers, brown leather with steel beneath, had intricate and stylized symbols across the forearms. On the inner forearm of their left bracer, one, looking closely, would find a deceptively simple looking metal bar strapped to the bracer.

An uneasy flick of the shorter figure's hand unleashed a segmented blade from its housing. A second flick of his hand caused the hidden blade to return to it sheathed position within the bracer. He repeated the action a few times, sending the blade sliding in and out with a sinister hiss.

The taller man placed a hand upon his comrade's shoulder, giving him a squeeze as he understood his friend's uneasy attitude.

The smaller of the duo took a deep breath, released it, and smiled at his teacher.

The mentor jerked his head towards the castle, raising an eyebrow, sending a look that inquired if he was ready to continue. At his students nod, they resumed their walk towards the castle.

Twenty feet from the castle, the great doors swung open, allowing a mountain of a man to walk out.

As soon as the doors had opened an inch, the white-clad comrades instinctively reached for the top symbol on their bracers.

As soon as their fingers brushed the symbol, they muttered their keywords and the stored disillusionment charm activated, covering them in invisibility.

They held their breath and stilled themselves as the giant walked past, humming a tune as he lumbered down the path to his house.

As soon as the groundskeeper had passed out of hearing range, the pair slipped through the closing doors and entered the castle.

The mentor led the way through the castle, reading off a map taped to his right bracer. They paused only when a staircase moved away from their path or when the caretaker and his cat passed by.

Three stairways later, they entered the corridor of the third floor. Following the map, the white-clad pair walked to the door at the end of the hallway, keeping to the shadows rather than depend on their disillusionment charms alone.

The door was locked, though a non-verbal 'favorable to thieves' charm got the pair through with little difficulty.

Both paused for an instant at the sight of a gargantuan, three-headed dog passed out in the middle of the room.

The teacher looked around, noting a harp in the corner charmed to play. A quick wave of his hand replenished the charm, seeing how it was nearly depleted.

Both teacher and student walked over to the unconscious dog, looking down at its paw. Underneath the boulder-sized limb, a trapdoor was blocked by its weight.

Grasping the offending limb, the duo moved it to the side and opened the trapdoor.

Now open, darkness yawned beneath the floor. The taller man crossed his arms over his chest and stepped into the hole, hurtling into the shadows. His companion followed suit.

Landing amongst plants, the pair rolled to their feet and quickly exited through the door, immediately noting what type the plant was.

Opening the door, they found themselves in a large room, a couple of broomsticks in the corner and a locked door at the other end. Above them flew golden keys in clouds of glittering wings.

The teacher waved the student forward, allowing him to take the lead for this challenge. The boy jumped atop the broom and kicked off, soaring into the keys.

A minute later, the boy landed with a silver key in his fist. The teacher allowed a brief smile to cross his face as he waved his student to the door. _He's a natural on any broom._

Opening the locked door, the pair found themselves on one side of a giant chessboard. The teacher walked across the board, only to be stopped as the pawns drew their dual blades and crossed them with their comrades on either side, stopping his advance.

Walking back to his side of the board, the teacher directed his student to take the place of the king side bishop whilst he took the place of the queen.

The white side moved first, sending the furthermost pawn on the queen's side ahead a single space. The white clad man responded by sending the pawn in front of his king ahead two spaces.

White moved its pawn up two spaces to meet the teacher's pawn, blocking it from advancing further.

The boy, recognizing the strategy his teacher was playing, went diagonally to the left three spaces, taking a position in front of the other bishop and pawn.

White moved its king side knight up and to the left, trying to get it into the playing field.

The teacher then moved to the edge of the board, a space ahead of the white pawn line.

The other white knight moved up and to the right.

The boy took the pawn in front of the king side bishop, putting the king into checkmate.

The king's sword fell from its finger in surrender and left the board, the other white chess pieces following suit, clearing the way for the duo.

Teacher and student walked towards the door behind what was the white side of the chessboard, bumping fists in triumph as they stepped off the board.

Opening the next door, they were repelled for a moment as a near-overwhelming stench billowed out. The source was a troll lying passed out in the middle of the room.

Student and teacher shared looks before passing around the troll, entering the chamber beyond.

It was a mostly empty room, only a long table with seven bottles, the biggest on one end and the smallest at the other.

Both white clad intruders walked across the room, ignoring the table and potions.

As they passed the midpoint of the room, flames erupted from the bottoms of the doors: purple flames barring the door they entered, black barring the door they needed to pass through.

Surprised looks were exchanged. The boy walked to the black flames and waved his hand at the flames, casting a flame freezing charm.

Being smart, the student chose to test if the charm was working with a throwing knife rather than test it with his hand. Tossing it into the flames, he watched the leather binding on the hilt.

It burnt away in seconds, followed closely by the transformation from solid, lethal knife to molten metal. Looking back at his teacher, the boy shook his head, indicating that the charms didn't have any effect.

The man looked over at the table and picked up a piece of paper by the potion bottles. Waving his student forward, he read the poem.

_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,  
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,  
One among us seven will let you move ahead,  
Another will transport the drinker back instead,  
Two among our number hold only nettle-wine,  
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line  
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore  
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:  
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide  
You will always find some on nettle wine's left side  
Second, different are those who stand at either end  
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;  
Third as you see clearly, all are different size  
Neither dwarf nor giant hold death in their insides;  
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right  
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._

After a few moments of contemplation, the boy pointed out two bottles: the smallest one in line and the third largest from the left.

A nod from his teacher told him he had concluded correctly. The boy picked up the smallest bottle and drank the contents. A sudden freezing feeling had him shivering as he walked through the black flames.

The teacher watched him go before taking a sip of the potion that would allow him to return to the chess room. As he passed through the flames, his thought dwelled on his student.

He had trained as best as he could. It was all up to him…

The student emerged from the flames with a hand on his sword hilt, prepared for the worst. He had always known it was his job to finish the mission, ever since his master had given him the feather. His teacher had said this was to be his first mission.

_Time to stain the white with red…_

Pressing his back into the wall, he looked around the corner, searching for his target.

A man in black robes and a purple turban stood in the center of the room, facing a very large and ornate mirror. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ was inscribed across the top.

_I show you not your face but your heart's desire? Then… perhaps… it doesn't reflect… perfect…_

The boy took his hand off his sword and touched the second symbol in line at his bracer, invoking a stored, single-use silencing spell to hide his movements. Otherwise, the telltale sounds of his clothes brushing against the stone and weapons clinking would give away his position in the chilling, tomb-like silence of the room.

The boy crept down the stairs, crouched with both hands out in front of him, right hand ready to grab his target. His left hand flicked, unleashing the hidden blade housed on his wrist.

Three steps from his prey, he tensed his muscles in preparation to spring onto his enemy's back and bury the assassin's blade in his throat, a stunt he had perfected over years of practice.

"_Behind you_," hissed a voice from beneath the man's turban.

The man spun around and flicked his wand at the boy, sending him careening back into the stairs.

The boy landed awkwardly, though he rolled into a fighting crouch in an instant and retracted his hidden blade immediately. His mentor had taught him to always keep an ace up his sleeve.

"Who are you?" asked the turban-wearing man, adopting a dueling stance in preparation for battle.

The boy remained silent, drawing his sword and his wand simultaneously. Five hours of combat practice a day, seven days a week, tends to make a person good in a fight.

"_An Assassin…_" hissed the mans turban, its voice echoing slightly off the walls.

The boy flinched as the voice struck home. He also wondered how a turban knew of the Assassin Order of Masyaf.

"_Let me speak with him…_" hissed the voice, making the man flinch, bringing a hand to his head.

"Master, you are not strong enough!" said the man, rubbing his hands together nervously.

_The man wearing a purple turban with an apparent inferiority complex is showing devotion to afore-mentioned hat_, the boy thought to himself. _Weird…_

"_I am strong enough for this…_" said the turban.

The man raised his hands to his head and began to unwrap the turban.

The white-cloaked boy took a step back as another face was revealed, looking as if it had grown out of the back of the mans head. _Okay, new all time high on the disgust-o-meter_, thought the boy, flexing his fingers around his weapons.

The man quickly pulled a one-eighty, turning so the parasite of a head could talk to the boy face-to-… uhm… back of the head?

"_It has been a long time since I've seen the white cowl of the Masyaf Assassins. To what do I owe this… interuption?_" drawled the voice.

"If you know of our order, you already know why I am here," deadpanned the boy as he spun both his wand and sword in a short circle, loosening up.

"_Perhaps if I offered some form of payment, you would consider joining me?_" asked the parasitic head.

"Whom would I be joining?" asked the boy, feigning interest as he watched the man. _He is right handed and seems to be weak on his right leg,_ he thought as he analysed the man.

"_I am the Dark Lord Voldemort…_"

"I am unimpressed."

"_Insolent boy! Quirrel! Destroy him!_" shouted Voldemort, prompting Quirrel to turn and begin his attack.

Three flicks of Quirrel's wand and a shouted "Stupefy," sent a trio of stunners at the young assassin, the scarlet beams leaving tracers in the air.

The cowled assassin smiled as he used a bludgeoning curse to shoot two of the stunners out of the air and used his sword to neatly bisect the third, acting as if he had just brushed away an annoying insect rather than a number of stunners.

His reply was a pair of cutting curses, a stunner and a reductor curse, causing Quirrel to employ a protego charm and a quick step to avoid damage.

Dodging the last curse, Quirrel stumbled, growing slightly out of breath as he faced the young assassin. His eyes reflected the flames in the doorway behind his opponent, rage building beneath the surface.

"Come now. Is that the best you have to offer?" taunted the assassin, using his wand arm to goad his two-faced enemy.

"_Kill him!_"

Quirrel was too eager to comply, launching a bludgeoning curse of his own, aimed to send the assassin flying back up the stairs.

The assassin reacted, bisecting the curse with his sword, though the force of the spell sent a wave of air at him, blowing the hood off his head.

Quirrel dropped his jaw in shock, the killing curse dying on his lips as he saw a lightning bolt shaped scar on the boys head.

"Harry Potter?"

The newly introduced Harry Potter smiled, baring his teeth in a somewhat feral grin. "Surprise!" he shouted as he touched a tattoo on the back of his neck, a stylised capital A.

Harry's eyes glowed an incandesent green, giving him an evil feral-like smile, scaring the ex-DADA teacher even further.

Beneath his robes, invisible tattoos stretching across his body suddenly appeared, black against his skin. Harry felt a wave of energy as his array of runes activated, increasing all of his physical abilities and making the world seem as if it had slowed down.

Harry disappeared, literally vanishing into thin air before appearing directly in front of Quirrel's face.

"Game over," he said, flicking his hand to unleash his blade before burying it into the Dark Lord's servant's neck.

Quirrel's eyes widened at the pain, then slowly closed, glazed over in the throes of death.

Harry heard the wings of death whisper on the air and watched through his Eagle Vision as the Angel of Death appeared and gathered Quirrel's soul into her arms. Quirrel smiled, glad to leave this world and all its misery behind.

"Requiescat in pace," said Harry, crossing himself.

A blur of movement caught Harry's eyes. A formless cloud drifted out of Quirrel's body before forming a face and flying out of the room, howling like a demon.

Harry smirked as reached into his belt and from it pulled a white feather. A quick swipe across Quirrel's neck soaked the unblemished feather in the former life-giving, crimson liquid.

Harry looked up and caught himself in the mirror's reflection. His mirror image smirked at him before tapping a pocket and disappearing.

Harry stood and walked away, leaving Quirrel's corpse lying on the floor, blood pooling around its head. Replacing the hood on his head, Harry sheathed his sword, replaced his wand in its arm sheath and left the room.

The Philosopher's Stone lay heavy in his pocket.


	2. A Snake in the Bathroom?

**Hogwarts, May 29, 1993…**

The sloping grounds of Hogwarts were bathed in the deep red and orange hues of sunset. Shadows lengthened, adding an almost intimidating and ominous look to the castle.

As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, a teen-aged young man wearing a white cloak stepped out of the Forbidden Forest.

_I'll never know why they call it the Forbidden Forest. It's really quite nice,_ though the assassin as he made his way up the grounds, heading for the large doors that were one of the obstacles barring his path to the famed Chamber of Secrets.

The Assassin Order kept a tab on everything, including the location of many 'secret rooms' in other schools of magic, such as Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. The Chamber of Secrets was one of such secrets, held by the Grand Master and his council. They allowed Assassins to look into the archives whenever facts were missing or damn near impossible to find. _Like a sure lead on the Chamber…_

The assassin walked up the path, checking his weaponry as he approached the door. He flicked his left hand, activating his hidden blade. Another flick sheathed the blade as he reached for his other weapons: his short blade in his back scabbard and his sword at his side.

He looked over the blades, checking for any faults. Finding none, he replaced the blades and flicked his fingers, sliding his wand out of the arm holster he wore. After checking the wand over, he put it back into the holster and pushed the heavy doors open.

It was late in the evening and the school was on a lockdown, so the halls were empty of teachers and students alike. The assassins slid through the halls like a shadow, slipping from alcove to doorway, blending in with the darkness even though he wore white.

"What about my sister?" cried a voice, causing the white-clad shadow to pause before a partly closed door. He pushed it open slowly, peering around the door to find a red haired wizard dressed in black robes with a lion on the lapel and a blonde-haired wizard wearing gaudy robes and curlers. The blonde wizard seemed to be in a hurry to be elsewhere, packing his clothes and portraits of himself as he sputtered about having an urgent call.

"What about all those things you've done in your books?"

"Books can be misleading!"

"You wrote them!"

"My dear boy, do you use your common sense? My books wouldn't have sold half as well if people didn't think I'd done those things," said the blonde. The assassin recognized him as Gilderoy Lockhart, the supposed superstar whose abilities were the stuff of legend, according to the current newspapers.

_Stuff of legend indeed. I know for a fact that it was Antonio Marino who killed the werewolf who was terrorizing Tuscany. I was there! That field trip to the former hunting grounds of Ezio Auditore de Firenze was a nice way to finish our lesson on being unseen._

"You're a fraud!" cried the red-haired wizard, drawing his wand. "Is there anything you can do?"

"Yes," said Lockhart indignantly. "I'm quite good with Memory charms, otherwise all those other wizards and witches would have gone blabby."

He turned his back on the wizard, surreptitiously reaching for his wand. "Unfortunately, I'll have to do the same to you!"

He turned quickly, bringing his wand to bear on the red haired wizard. His lips formed the word for the memory charm, though it never made it past them.

His eyes bugged out as a white shadow loomed behind the boy, a sword in one hand and a wand in the other. "W-w-wha… wh-who are you?"

The redhead turned just in time to see the white clad assassin jump over his head, pulling a flip in midair before landing between the pair.

A quick reverse hooking kick impacting the DADA teacher's face left him sprawled across the floor. The redhead turned back to see the back of the assassin as he knelt by his head to test for a pulse.

"Who are you?" asked the boy, his hand falling to his side, wand clattering to the floor.

The assassin said nothing, standing as soon as he found a pulse in the blonde fraud. He paused, contemplating whether or not to give the downed professor a kick in the ribs, just for the hell of it.

The assassin left the room, walking towards the bathroom on the second floor. He didn't turn as he heard the red headed boy follow him, stumbling over the edge of his robe in his haste.

"Why are you here?"

"The chamber opened, the beast unleashed, on innocent blood, the fiend will feast. If not for a blade, a red entombed, a shade of old, his dark ways resumed," said the assassin, speaking the prophecy he had received from one of the Seers of the Assassin Order.

"What does that mean?" said the boy, skidding to a halt as the assassin entered the bathroom. He paused in the doorway, watching the white-clad, armed man examine the sinks forming an octagon in the middle of the circular room.

"What are you looking for?"

Circling the sinks, the assassin looked closely at the sink faucets, looking for a sign of Slytherin. Halfway around, he waved the boy forward, pointing out a serpent forming the letter 's' engraved on the faucet.

"A snake? Wait… this is the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets?"

"_Open_," hissed the assassin, speaking in Parseltongue.

The sinks began to spread apart outward, the octagonal stone that served as its top rose to the ceiling. Beneath the sinks yawned a giant pipe, its depths shrouded in darkness. The sink with the snake faucet sunk beneath the floor, leaving a grate to slide overtop with a sinister hiss and clank of machinery.

"Who are you?" asked a girl's voice, emanating from one of the stalls.

The assassin turned to look at the ghost, who was now sticking her head through the wall of the toilet stall. He nodded in greeting, turning away from the entrance of the Chamber.

"Do not follow me," he said as he leaned backwards, arms spread, falling into the Chamber.

Ghost and human shared a glance of incredulity before turning tail and running for Professor Dumbledore's office as fast as they could float and run.

**Bottom of the pipe…**

After rolling to a stop, the assassin took a look around, his Eagle Vision allowing him to see in the gloom. A step forward caused him to look down as the bones of rats and other vermin crunched underfoot. A forty-foot snakeskin lay on the ground, adding to the _cheerful_ ambience. _Well, well, somebody's been a might bit hungry… time to put it on a permanent diet._

He strode down the tunnel, alert for a telltale sound of attack, mainly the sound of slithering. A minute later he stood before a thick, circular steel door. Seven snakes stretched from where the hinges were to the outer edges.

"_Open_," hissed the assassin, walking calmly to the door. An eighth snake slithered out of the hinges, following the circumference of the circle. As the snake passed, the others slid back accompanied by the sound of bolts sliding back.

The door opened, surprisingly silent on hinges that haven't been used in fifty years, let alone being hundreds of years old. Leaning against the side, the assassin peers around the door, preferring not to charge in and meet the basilisk face to face.

A large, cavernous room lay beyond the door, snake head statues lining the walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, creating pools on the stone floors.

_This place must be under the Black Lake,_ he thought as he walked through the door, sealing it behind him with a locking rune of his own design. _If I don't live to get out, that bastard Riddle won't leave either._

At the end of the room was a statue, vaguely resembling the magical image in the archives. _Of course… it's his secret chamber, of course he's gonna put his ugly face up on the wall…_

An eleven year-old girl in Hogwarts uniform and robes was lying on the stone floor, a few feet from the edge of the pool separating the rest of the room from the statue. A fifteen year-old boy stood a few feet from her, twirling a wand between his fingers.

"Evening, Dark Lord," said the assassin conversationally, nodding to the teen as he checked for a pulse in the girl. Finding one, he took the black-backed diary from her cold hands.

_Here it is, the cause of all this_, he thought, turning to the memory-come-to-life of his enemy, the one who changed his life forever. _If my parents hadn't died that night, I might thank you for getting me in league with the Assassins… no, probably not._

"Evening… forgive me, you have me at a loss… you know who I am, though I know you not," said Tom Riddle, still the polite, well mannered, suck-up he was back in 1943.

"Death," he said, as he tossed the diary into the air, completed a 360 degree turn as drew his sword and stabbed the diary directly through the center. Riddle's face contorted in horror as he watched his diary neatly skewered in midair, feeling himself torn apart as the magic that anchored him in this world was destroyed along with the diary. He was three minutes away from returning to life, having drawn on the life energy of the girl. _If he had arrived three minutes later, I would have been fully alive again!_

With a gigantic explosion of light, the wraith of Tom Marvolo Riddle disintegrated, leaving no trace that he had ever been there in the first place.

The redhead awoke with a start, nearly jackknifing off the ground as she sat up with alarm. Puzzlement crossed her face as she watched the white robed assassin pull the black diary she had been writing in off the blade of the sword he held.

"Who are you?" she asked, slowly standing as the assassin turned to her, sheathing his sword and placing the ruined diary in his belt. "Why are you here?"

The assassin pointed at her, then beckoned with his hand, clearly indicating that she should follow him. She took a step forward, hesitantly, as he turned and began to head back to the doorway.

A grinding sound caused the assassin and student to pause and turn, as the mouth of Salazar Slytherin's wall statue began to open. Once the mouth had fully opened, a sinister hiss replaced the grinding sound of gears.

"Run!" shouted the assassin, drawing his sword with his right hand and sending a pulse of magic from his left to disrupt the locking rune on the door. "Close the door behind you. Wait for me. I'll only need a minute."

The witch ran for the door, making it there in time for the basilisk to make an appearance. Its dull yellow eyes searched the room for its master, only finding a white robed teen, armed and ready for battle.

"_Where is Master_?" hissed the basilisk, swinging its head back and forth, still looking for Riddle.

"_Dead, by my hand_," the assassin hissed back, readying his blade. _A full-grown, hundred-foot basilisk. I'm definitely gonna need my Assassin Runes, even if they have a great consequence…_

**Flashback: Masyaf, June 5, 1991…**

"So… have you learned your lesson?" asked Talal, leaning over Harry's bed, an I-told-you-so smirk on his face.

"Yeah, the Assassin rune tattoos are to be used as a last resort. Use of the runes can leave even the most powerful assassin bedridden for twelve hours," replied Harry, shifting pained muscles on the bed.

"The tattoos accelerate your body, physically and mentally. It puts a tremendous amount of strain on the body. Prolonged use is very dangerous," he said, walking out of the infirmary of the fortress.

**Present…**

"_Die!_" hissed the basilisk, springing forward to attack the assassin, fangs bared with poison dripping off the dagger-like tips.

Harry reached under his hood and tapped the activation rune for his tattoos. Power surged through him, invigorating him, allowing him to see the basilisk charge in slow motion, his body and mind moving at a much higher speed.

A sidestep caused the basilisk's attack to miss and an underhand slice put a nice gash into the basilisk's hide. He spun on his heel to face the basilisk as it crashed into a pillar, hissing in pain from the wound his blade inflicted.

The basilisk roared in anger, bleeding on the stone floor. Never had it been wounded before, always killing with its eyes rather than its fangs. It roared, shaking the very chamber with its roar.

The assassin made no vocal reply to the monsters challenge, merely shifting into a fighting stance. He stretched out his left hand, pointed at it, drew his fingers across his neck, and resumed his stance. A smirk played across his lips as the basilisk wound up for another strike.

The basilisk charged again, poisonous fangs seeking warm flesh. A quick jump spin laid another gash on the basilisk's side, adding to the blood staining the floor.

"Shall we dance?" asked the assassin, executing a perfect bow, holding out his hand as if to take the hand of a dance partner, his head bowed. He looked up to smirk at the basilisk, once again readying itself for an attack.

_End of the line_, thought the assassin as the basilisk charged. He stepped into the attack, right into the basilisk's mouth. It tried to bite him, to crush him with its powerful jaws. Using his left hand, Harry nearly effortlessly held its jaws from closing as he stabbed the sword through the roof of its mouth, piercing the brain.

The basilisk arched in pain, its muscles contracting. Harry slid from its mouth, dropped to the floor and walked a few steps away, heading for the door. He reached under his hood to tap his tattoo, ending the enhancements.

He sheathed his sword with the ominous screech of steel on steel. As the hilt met the scabbard with a click, the basilisk's head hit the floor with a deafening thud.

**Outside the Chamber…**

The red-haired girl sat nervously on a rock a few feet from the door to the Chamber, playing with the frayed hem of her school skirt. _What if he doesn't come out?_

The door opened slowly, startling the girl, who shrank back against the wall. _I'm gonna die!_

The assassin's hood peered around the door, making her breathe a sigh of relief. "I was worried you weren't going survive."

The assassin made no answer, merely walking up the tunnel, heading for the surface. The witch followed, stumbling over rocks in the gloomy tunnel.

"How are you not tripping?" she asked, stumbling as her shoe caught on an outcropping.

The assassin turned, pointed at his head, and continued walking, leaving the witch confused.

After a few minutes, they came to the bottom of the tunnel. Looking up the tunnel, noting the smoothness of the walls, the witch asked, "How are we going to get back up?"

The assassin pointed at the wall opposite of the tunnel, a rough rock wall leading up to the surface. Again, the witch was skeptic. "How are we going to get up that?"

The assassin crouched, grabbed her arms and spun around, putting her arms around his neck. She squealed as she was lifted on to the assassin's back. It was slightly uncomfortable, since his back scabbard dug into her stomach.

"Hold on," said the assassin. He ran at the wall, took a couple of steps up it, and latched onto the wall. He began to climb, finding handholds that appeared invisible to the untrained eye. In a few minutes, they reached the second floor bathroom.

"Hello, Ginny. Nice to see you again," said Myrtle, smiling at the Weasley. She turned her spectral form to the assassin and smiled. "Nice to see you again."

He nodded in greeting as he placed the Weasley girl back on her feet. She turned to him and looked up at him, staring at the shadowed face. "Thank you for saving me."

"No problem," said the assassin. Turning to Myrtle, he asked, "Is the Headmaster expecting her?"

"Yes."

"Safety and peace, Ginny. You are safe now," said the assassin, bowing slightly in her direction. He turned and walked out the door, leaving her with Myrtle.

"Wait!" she cried, running after him. "Who are you?" she asked as she looked both ways up and down the corridor, searching for any sign of her white-wearing rescuer.

The torches burned brightly, illuminating the empty hallway.

**Outside the Headmaster's Office…**

A pale haired man walked off the gargoyle stairway that lead to the Headmaster's office. Dressed in black, he walked with an air of utmost arrogance, as if anyone in his path was beneath him. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes as his son.

A house-elf walked behind him, dressed in a ragged and dirty pillowcase, cowering from his master's rage. Lucius Malfoy was not a happy man.

"How dare that old fool come back! He's an incompetent, doddering old ma-" he cut himself off as an armed, white-clad teen appeared out of the shadows. "Who are you?"

The assassin smiled, placing one hand on his sword as he walked towards the 'former' Death Eater. "You would do well, _Mister Malfoy_, to keep artifacts of Voldemort to yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

The assassin pulled the ruined diary from his belt and tossed it at him, catching him in the chest as he tried to catch it.

"What is this?" he snarled, throwing the book at Dobby, enraged at the boy in front of him. "Do not mess with your betters, who ever you are. If you try, you will meet the same sticky end that many have met before you."

The assassin smiled wider, withdrawing into the shadows. "As long as we understand each other."

The Death Eater stood there for a moment before marching off down the corridor.

Dobby started to walk after him, though skidded to a halt as the assassin reappeared.

"Open the diary and undo the seal. If you want to join me, you'll know where to find me," he said, before teleporting with a crack.

Dobby opened the book and touched the rune written in blood, using his magic to undo the seal.

A shrunken assassin white outer robe fell out of the diary, falling in a heap at the elf's feet. Grabbing the garment, Dobby smiled for the first time. He quickly switched his ragged pillowcase for the assassins garment, pulling the hood over his head, a pair of slits in the hood allowing his ears to poke out.

"Dobby is free!" he cried, performing a jig on the spot. He quickly scooped up the diary and read the address beneath the used rune.

With his own crack, he followed the man who set him free.

**I just couldn't let Dobby remain with the Malfoys.**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	3. A Family Friend in Need

**Hogwarts, September 2, 1993…**

The Forbidden Forest was an interesting place for a class, though it had a semi-cheerful ambience to it in the daylight hours. The canopy cast a slight green hue on things, adding to the inviting atmosphere. Huge trees cast shadows in the sunlight, towering over the students walking behind the half-giant Hagrid.

"Master Harry, wait up," whisper-yelled Dobby, jumping from branch to branch after his master. He wore the Assassins garb, shrunken to his size. He wore the same weapons as his assassin master, a hidden blade on his left wrist, a short blade across his back, a Syrian sword at his waist, a belt of throwing knives at his waist, and more on his boot and shoulder spaulder.

Harry had received his new over robe. Unfortunately, it was not long enough to change his shadow, like the Master Assassins, though it did the job of signifying his new rank. He was now Grand Assassin, a single rank lower than the famed Altair Ibn-La'ahad.

He leapt to the next branch, landing with a grace honed by years of practice. _Ever since I could remember, I've trained to be an Assassin… now, one last mission before I attain my Master status._

He stopped, sitting on a branch far above the class. Dobby appeared at his elbow, shaking his head at Harry. "Master Harry should have waited for Dobby."

The Grand Assassin just shot a look at his house elf, smirking beneath his mask.

Hagrid had just brought out a trio of hippogriffs.

They are flying creatures with the head, wings, and forelegs of a giant eagle and the body, including hind legs and tail, of a horse. Hippogriffs are carnivorous and are extremely dangerous until tamed, which should only be attempted by a trained witch or wizard. That said, hippogriffs can and do live on insects, birds, and small animals such as rats and ferrets. A person wishing to approach a hippogriff should maintain eye contact and should bow first; if the animal bows in return, it can be touched and even ridden.

Hagrid explained this to the students, putting emphasis on how to approach a hippogriff, especially since they are notoriously proud creatures.

"First thing you wanna know about hippogriffs, is that they're very proud creatures, very easily offended. You do not want to insult a hippogriff. It may just be the last thing you ever do," he said, pausing to get his point across. "Now, who'd like to come and say hello?

A red-haired boy stepped forward after a moment of silence. "Well done, Ron, well done."

Ron approached the hippogriff, whom Hagrid called Buckbeak. He bowed low, maintaining eye contact with the eagle eyes of Buckbeak.

After a moment of silent contemplation, probably thinking that Ron looked like good eating, Buckbeak bowed as well, extending his clawed forelegs and bowing his head low.

"Well done, Ron, well done," said Hagrid, feeding Buckbeak a dead ferret. He walked over to Ron, who was now petting Buckbeak. "I think he'll let you ride him now."

"What?" asked Ron, just before Hagrid picked him up, put him on Buckbeak's back, and slapped the hippogriff's hindquarters, causing him to spread his wings and begin to fly.

The hippogriff flew out of the forest, giant wings flapping through the air. It was back in a few minutes, Ron hanging on for dear life, a terrorized look on his face.

"Well done, Ron, well done," reiterated Hagrid, smiling at his red-haired friend. He lifted him off the hippogriff and set him on his feet.

"That doesn't look so hard," said a pale-haired boy, his attitude very similar to his father's. The assassins watched as he walked up to the hippogriff, not bowing a degree. "I bet you're not dangerous at all, are you?"

"Malfoy! Back off, back off!" said Hagrid as he glared at Malfoy.

"Are you, you great ugly brute?" asked Malfoy, smirking at the hippogriff.

Both assassins shook their heads with disdain clear on their faces as Buckbeak reared up at Malfoy. He stumbled back, raising an arm to protect his face as Buckbeak kicked his forelegs.

A muted crack sounded as the human assassin teleported, reappearing behind Malfoy, eliciting a gasp from the students. He pulled back on Draco's hood, removing the Malfoy heir from the line of fire.

Malfoy fell flat on his back, looking up at the white-robed assassin now standing above him.

The assassin tilted his head at the Malfoy heir, a smirk on his face, before teleporting again, reappearing beside Dobby in their tree hiding place.

The class was awestruck at how fast the hooded stranger had moved, one brown-haired girl asking Hagrid how he had appeared and disappeared, since apparition was impossible due to the wards of Hogwarts, and others wondering why the stranger was so armed and armored.

The assassin turned to his house elf friend and jerked his hooded head away from the distracted class, back the way they came.

The house elf nodded, turned and began jumping from branch to branch, heading deeper into the Forbidden Forest. Their job was finished. One crisis was averted. All that was left was to wait for the next one, near the end of the year, according to the Seers.

The other assassin took one last look down at the hippogriffs, meeting the eyes of Buckbeak. The hippogriff nodded before leading the other magical creatures into the forest.

The assassins smiled before he, too, left the area.

**Hogwarts, June 6, 1994…**

Once again, the white robes of the assassins were present on the grounds of Hogwarts, though this time their target was not within the castle itself, but rather by the Whomping Willow planted on the grounds.

Their target was Sirius Black, the man supposed to have betrayed James and Lily Potter to Voldemort, fourteen years ago. The assassins knew he was innocent, so they never hunted him down when their brother had been killed at the Dark Lord's hands.

_What I wonder is why the Order never bailed him out of Azkaban… _thought Harry as he approached the aggressive willow tree.

It branches creaked ominously, subtly preparing it branches to pummel the two assassins approaching its territory. Both assassins exchanged glances before splitting up, narrowly avoiding an attack from the tree.

The house elf in assassin garb dodged as another branch nearly put him in the dirt. He stepped onto it as the willow raised the limb, intent on attacking again. He ran the length of the branch leaping to the base of the tree. In less than a second, Dobby had pressed the knot of the tree, causing it to freeze in mid-attack.

The human rolled out of the way, barely avoiding a horizontal attack from the willow. He sprang to his feet and caught the branch, redirecting it right past his head rather than into it.

A third branch froze an inch from the blade the assassin position behind his head, seeing the sneak attack from behind. He smiled as he replaced the blade and walked over to the house elf, nodding in admiration at the house elf's skills.

"Not bad… for an elf," he said, ducking into the hole at the base of the tree.

The house elf had smiled at this disguised compliment. The hidden compliment was due to his skills despite having only been trained for a year. Compared to his master, a Grand Assassin, he still had a large amount of skills to learn, even though he himself was a Greater Assassin. He followed Harry down the hidden corridor, tightening the straps of his hidden blade.

The gloomy tunnel went on for a few moments before leading to a staircase. Both assassins activated their silencing charms and made their way up the stairs, ready for anything. Sounds from the floor above caused them to pause, just in case they were discovered. A moment of silence passed before they crept upwards.

At the top of the stairs, a partly closed door hid the occupants of the room, though the pair of assassins could hear every word nonetheless. They crept closer, leaning around the door to see the occupants.

Ron Weasley sat on the ragged four-poster bed, holding a rat and his leg, a blood bite standing out against his pale face.

A curly-haired brunette stood by him, wringing her hands as she tried to figure out what to do.

A man leaned on the piano, looking haggard and tired, though his eyes were alight. He was staring at the other two occupants, nearly twitching with anticipation.

"Give me a reason, Black. Just give me a reason," said a black-haired, pale man, holding a wand at Black's throat.

"Excellent, Snivellus, just excellent. You've put your keen and penetrating mind to work and, as usual, you've come up with the wrong conclusion," said Black, sneering at him despite the wand digging into his neck.

"I could kill you now, though I've heard the dementors just hate losing their prey," said the man, stepping close to Black. "A demetors kiss is supposed to be unbearable to watch… but I'll try my best."

The assassins exchanged a glance, human looking down and house elf looking up, as they recognized the man: Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts

Black looked over Snape's shoulder, trying to find an avenue of escape. He looked at the door and his eyes widened, seeing a pair of white hoods staring back at him.

The assassin raised a finger to his lips, telling Black to be silent. He nodded nearly imperceptibly before looking back at Snape.

Snape mistook the widening of Black's eyes for fear. "What's that? A twinge of fear?"

Human and elf nodded and, as one, kicked the door open. The door flew open; crashing into the wall it was hinged to, the handle embedding itself in the wall. The room shook, dust falling from the new cracks ceiling caused by the combined power of the kicks.

Snape spun, bringing his wand to bear on them, though a snap of the elf's fingers sent him flying into the wall. His head hit the wall with enough force to knock him out, slumping onto the floor, his wand rolling away.

"Assassins," said Black, scooping up Snape's wand. "Nice to see you."

"Assassins?" asked the brunette, confused as the house elf tossed her wand to her.

"Never mind, Miss Granger," said the other man, taking his wand back from Snape. Nodding at the two white clad assassins, he said, "If you'll excuse us, we have business to attend to with the rat, as it were."

"He's Scabbers, not Pettigrew! I'm telling you!" yelled Ron from the bed, holding a near frantic rat in his hand. "He's been in the family for-"

"Fourteen years," finished Black, smiling at Ron. "Long life for a common rat, hm?"

"We are only going to cast a spell that will force him to resume his human form. If he's just a rat, it won't hurt him. I promise," said the other man, holding out his hand for the rat.

Ron silently held out the rat. The man picked him up and looked at Black.

"On the count of three," he said, readying his wand.

"One…two… three!" Black said. The man tossed the rat into the air and Black fired a silvery bolt at the airborne rat.

The effect was instantaneous. The rat morphed into a short man, wringing his hands. He had a rat-like face and a pointed nose, his eyes were small and watery, his hair thin, unkempt with a bald patch. He truly was the closest thing a man could be to a rat.

"Remus? Sirius? My old friends," he said smiling. He opened his arms as if to embrace them before trying to make a break for the door.

The door slammed closed, locked and a flaming rune branded itself into the wood. Just in front of the sealed door, the house elf assassin crossed his arms, his throwing knives floating in mid air in a ray of blades. He shook his head at the rat of a man, a smirk on his lips.

"Bad idea, Peter. Did you really think you could escape us?" asked Remus, pointing his wand at Pettigrew, his wand tip glowing in anger. "Did you think that we would just let you after what you did to James and Lily?"

"I never did anything to them!" cried Pettigrew, running to hide behind a wooden box. "I never touched a hair on their heads!"

Sirius Black, famed auror, part of the 'secret' Order of the Phoenix, was livid. He took a step and smashed a fist onto the box. A magically-powered blow to the rotting wood made it explode into dust, covering the cowering Pettigrew.

"You betrayed them! You betrayed them to Voldemort! You led him right to them!" roared Sirius, forgetting the wand in his hand. He looked angry enough to tear the former rat to shreds with his bare hands. "You should have died! Died rather than betray your friends! And you should have realized, Peter, if Voldemort didn't kill you..."

"We would," chorused Remus and Sirius, pointing their wands at the traitor.

"No!" shouted Hermione, causing everyone to turn to look at her.

"Hermione, this man led Voldemort to our friend's house. He betrayed them!" Remus said, still pointing his wand at Pettigrew.

"I know what he is. But we'll take him to the castle and after that, we'll give him to the dementors!"

_Hermione Granger, student of Hogwarts, Gryffindor House, third year. Excellent grades…_ thought the assassins, reading the info their hoods had provided.

Sirius looked over at the assassins, the short one still guarding the door with his blades floating in mid air, a sinister smile on the elf's lips, the tall one leaning against the wall by the boarded-up window. "What do you think, Assassin?"

The elf looked to the human assassin, who pushed off the wall and walked over to the middle ground between Hermione and Sirius and Remus. He turned, walked over to behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder before jerking his head at the door.

"Fine, fine," said Sirius, walking over to where Snape lay stretched out on the floor. A muttered charm had Snape floating in mid air, following Sirius like a dog on a leash."Let's go, before I change my mind."

They made a ragtag band: a ragged man levitating a greasy haired man, walking down the tunnel, a weary professor and a brunette supporting a red haired boy with red hair, a rat faced man who was wringing his hands followed by a reasonably armed pair of assassins whose only difference was their species.

They walked in silence, navigating the darkness with ease, thanks to the lit wand tips of Sirius and Remus and the glowing bracer of the mysterious assassin.

They stepped out from under the Willow, the trio moving awkwardly due to Ron's leg injury. The assassins moved gracefully, casting a Freezing charm on the Willow, stopping the attack before it could begin.

Sirius looked up at the castle, turrets stabbing into the sky, windows agleam with magical light. The assassin walked up next to him and folded his arms, sharing the view.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked the assassin, looking at the castle. "I'll never forget the first time I walked through those doors. It'll be nice to do it again, as a free man."

A moment of silence passed, assassins and convict listening to Ron and Hermione arguing about the chances of his leg needing amputation.

"That was a noble thing you did, siding with that girl. That rat of a man doesn't deserve it," said Sirius, disgruntled at his thwarted revenge. He had suffered in Azkaban for twelve years, awaiting the day when he would be able to kill the traitorous rat. Now, he looked up at the school, side by side with an assassin, the rat still alive, despite his feelings.

"James Potter would not have wanted his friends to become murderers over a rat," deadpanned the assassin, looking up at the stars. He smiled as Sirius shot him a look, shaking his head as he realized he was right.

"Sirius!" yelled Hermione, breaking them out of their reverie. They turned to find Hermione pointing into the sky, the full moon emerging from its absence behind the clouds.

Remus Lupin, werewolf, stared at the moon, a slight amount of horror crossing his face as he gazed upon the bane of his existence.

"Enervate," said the house elf assassin, pointing a finger at Snape. He came to, enraged and reaching for his wand, though stopped short as he saw Lupin standing there, just staring off into space.

Despite his feelings towards his childhood nemeses, he knew a problem when he saw it.

"Greasy professor will take children to school, quickly!" said the elf, pointing at Ron and Hermione. Despite the orders coming from an elf that was two feet tall in white hooded robes, Snape reacted at once, conjuring a stretcher for Ron and herding Hermione towards the castle, casting a calculating look back at the rapidly changing Lupin.

His skin had taken on an ashy hue, looking as if he were trying to hold something back. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, incoherent sounds of pain emerging from his mouth.

Sirius moved back, changing into a black Scottish deerhound, though his animagus form was bigger than the actual hound. _I hope I can handle him myself…_ thought the animagus, preparing to go charging at the giant-sized, grey-furred wolf.

He looked to the assassins to see what they were doing. James had told him stories that bordered on the ludicrous. _Let's hope those tales were true…_

The werewolf attacked, heading for the assassins, ignoring the familiar presence of Padfoot and attacking the white clad strangers.

The assassin reached beneath his hood and tapped his tattoo, getting battle ready.

The werewolf lunged at the assassin, attempting to remove the hood with his teeth.

_Werewolf bites transmit. Not claws…_ thought Harry as he plunged an uppercut into the werewolf ribs, sending it off target. It flipped over his head, landing in a heap behind him.

"Contain!" he shouted, pulling a tiny capsule from underneath his bracer.

The elf nodded and immediately ran a circle around the immediate area, drawing a ward with his elfin magic. As he closed the circle, a dome of blue energy sealed the werewolf, the giant black dog, and the assassin from the rest of the grounds.

The elf pulled back a fist, concentrated and slammed a fist into barrier. It rebounded with the sound of a gong, the punched area turning red for a second before turning blue once more. He flipped the other assassin an O.K. sign, smiling beneath the cowl.

The black dog jumped onto the werewolf, pulling at his ears, distracting him while the assassin readied himself for his own attack. Now, jumping onto a werewolf's back, which is of the same height as a shire horse's head, is not an easy task, though Sirius in his dog form did the job quite well.

The werewolf, it seemed, didn't enjoy the feeling of teeth in one's ear. He turned and went after the dog, which was crouched near the edge of the wards. He charged…

And ran right into the barrier as Sirius moved out of the way, moving himself out of the werewolf's attack path. _Damn it, Remus, you're getting faster!_

The assassin murmured a charm, restoring the capsule to its original size. Now, he held a syringe with a pale blue liquid held within.

"Hey, Spot!" called the assassin, yelling at the werewolf. "Come on!"

The werewolf shook itself, trying to clear his head. A werewolf can reach speeds that rival a cheetah, so a headfirst collision to a magical barrier can be a bit disorienting. After said shaking was done, his mind focused on the white clad assassin, who was currently telling him to 'heel,' 'play dead,' and 'roll over.'

Letting out a howl at the moon, the Lycanic Lupin charged. He leaped, trying to pin the assassin with his giant paws and rip off his head.

The assassin dodged back a step, letting the werewolf's paws crash down where he would have been. He quickly stepped forward before Lupin could react and slammed the syringe into the wolf's neck.

Lupin roared in pain as the syringe stuck in his neck as he staggered to the side, away from the white demon. He crumpled to the ground and was still.

Sirius transformed, standing upright next to the assassin, glaring at him. "What the hell did you do?"

"He's alive. Wolfsbane potion, with a little extra mixed in," intoned the assassin, watching Lupin struggle to his feet… er, paws. He looked at the pair, not with eyes crazed by the moon, but with eyes filled with the intelligence of a human and the trademark twinkle Lupin had. He walked over and nudged Sirius with his nose.

"Lupin? Is that you?" asked Sirius looking into the familiar eyes in a wolf's face.

The wolf nodded, bobbing its great head before looking at the assassins, quirking an… wolf eyebrow.

"Wolfsbane potion, though it has a few extra ingredients," reiterated the assassin, pulling the syringe out of his neck as he answered the wolf's unheard question. "We'll send you more, later."

The giant wolf nodded, turned and padded silently into the Forest.

The assassin and convict nodded at each other, relaxing as Lupin strode deeper into the Forest.

"Well… I'm glad that's over," said Sirius, stretching his back.

The assassin looked over his shoulder and smiled, despite the feeling of hopelessness that was filling him. "It's not over yet."

"Ah… fuck me," Sirius drawled, turning around to face the dementors, cloaks fluttering in the wind as they watched them from across the grounds.

"I hope you know the Patronus," Sirius whispered, drawing his wand and picked a happy memory, preparing his Patronus.

The assassin pulled a throwing knife out of his belt and cut a complex rune into his hand. Sirius paused mid-incantation as the assassin drew his sword, his bloodstained hand clasped around the handle.

"What are you doing?" asked a puzzled Sirius Black, having never seen such actions.

"Inviare loro all'Inferno," replied the assassin, his sword taking on a silvery hue. He settled into his fighting stance, glowing blade in hand. He lifted his empty hand and beckoned to the dementors.

"Come on!"

Sirius Black was awestruck. He just stood there, watching the assassin decimate the dementors, one by one. His blade, wrapped in the silvery hue, cut through each one, freezing it in mid-air with a ghost of the sword strike visible against the black cloaks.

In less than five minutes, one hundred and sixty-three dementors floated frozen in mid air. The assassin walked towards Sirius, sword still in hand.

"Now what?" asked Sirius, staring at the frozen dementors. "Just gonna leave them like that?"

"No," said the assassins, sheathing his sword. As soon as the hilt touched the scabbard, the sword marks on the dementors glowed brighter, and then exploded, turning the guards of Azkaban to dust.

"Wow," said Sirius, looking at the mounds of dust that had been his tormentors for many years. "Never seen that before."

"Sirius Black," said the assassin, addressing his companion. "You have two choices: come with us or fare on your own."

"Which will it be, Mister Black?" asked the elf, taking down the barrier with a snap of its fingers.

Sirius was silent, mulling over his answer. After a moment, he said, "I'll go on my own. I have some business to take care of."

"Very well," said the assassin, turning to go.

"Wait!" Sirius yelled, catching the assassin's arm. "Who are you?"

The assassin turned and smiled. He raised his hands and pulled back his hood, smirking at Sirius, green eyes flashing with contained humor.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, recognizing the face and the eyes. He doubled over, laughing so hard he didn't even notice the assassin whistle, calling Buckbeak out of the Forest.

"Your ride waits," said the assassin, turning away as he put his hood back up.

Sirius stopped laughing and bowed to the hippogriff. After Buckbeak had bowed back, he mounted the eagle/horse hybrid.

"You really are your father's son," he said lifting off into the sky.

He smiled as he watched him fly off into the night. Nodding to Dobby, they teleported back to the fortress, leaving the grounds echoing the howl of a wolf.

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	4. Home and Missions

**TheSilentJackofallTrades**** – Yes. The tattoo is the same one from the second chapter. It will be explained sooner or later… probably later…**

**He also didn't have to tattoo. Just more fun that way. If necessary, he could have body-bound Lupin and then given him the potion. He can use many other weapons, spells and techniques, though they will be revealed later on.**

**PAIRINGS DECIDED: Harry X Fleur.**

**Masyaf Fortress, June 8, 1994…**

An assassin stepped through the archway, inhaling the comforting scents of his home, Masyaf Fortress. He stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of metal clashing in the arena, the shrieks of the eagles overhead mixing with the voices of other assassins. Sounds and sights he had grown up with.

He smiled as he lifted a wooden box off of his shoulder and placed it on the ground. Even though he dropped it an inch from the ground, it was heavy enough to make the dust fly.

"Potter! Where have you been?" shouted an assassin, walking towards the sixteen year-old. The assassin smirked, noting the angry look on the face of his former teacher, Talal Ta'anari, a Grand Assassin, same as him.

"You were supposed to be back here yesterday. What happened?" asked Talal, throwing an arm around the younger assassin's shoulders. "Well?"

The younger assassin indicated the wooden box he had carried in with a jerk of his head. "Antonio and Mario send their regards… and some gifts."

Talal perked up at the mention of new weaponry. "Whatcha get? Whatcha get?"

Most people would be terribly amused to see a thirty-two year-old Grand Assassin acting like a child at the mere mention of new weaponry.

"Well? What did you pick up?" asked Talal, trying not to rub his hands together with glee.

The assassin let out a bark of laughter as he put an arm around his friend and led him to the box he had carried through the gates of Masyaf. He pulled his short blade from its scabbard and used it as a crowbar, forcing the lid off the wooden crate.

Talal stared at the weapons with something close to worship as his former student pulled one of the five objects out of the box. It was a Barrett M107CQ, one of the few .50 caliber American-made rifles in the world. Originally intended to be a long-distance anti-vehicle/armor sniper rifle, the M107 and all its variants use a 'floating barrel,' meaning that the barrel does not actually touch any part of the rifle, except where it is connected to receiver. This greatly increases the ability of a user to consistently fire accurate shots, making it one of the most accurate rifles in the world. However, to increase portability in the field of battle, this variant had its barrel shortened, decreasing its effective range.

Talal snatched the rifle out of his hands and began to rub the barrel, muttering "my precious" under his breath.

Of course, the 'light fifty' that Talal was caressing was not an ordinary rifle. The original model had an effective range of about eighteen-hundred yards, though that was before the magical techs got to them. The assassin pulled the rifle away and checked it, removing the ammo and checking the optics. After a couple of seconds of checking the weapon, he slapped the magazine back into its slot, chambered a round, flipped off the safety and raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighting a target through the 'scope.

Talal pulled a paper out of the box. A moment of silence followed as he read the letter. He looked up, amazement clear on his face. He looked as his former student and said, "Antonio and Mario must have spent weeks enchanting these. They've boosted the range by another thousand yards, shortened the barrel another four inches so its easier to carry and conceal, added silencing charms for those pesky assassination missions, lightened the weight to three pounds, reduced the recoil so multiple shots can be fired within a quarter-inch target, placed 'never empty' runes in the magazines, and enhanced the sights to match with the new range."

The assassin handed it back to Talal and pointed out the gate. "Hit the white stone tablet I left out there."

Talal looked through the sights, took a breath, let it out slowly and squeezed the trigger.

The assassin smiled as the rifle fired silently, making a note to up Mario's and Antonio's salary as he was looking out at the target with his hood's zoom function activated. A few seconds later, the target out on the sand shattered, throwing stone splinters into the air.

"Ta-da!" cried Talal, raising the rifle and clicked the safety on. He placed the rifle back into the box and replaced the lid.

He turned to his friend, smiling as he threw an arm around the younger man's shoulders. "Come on. Al Mualim wants to talk to you."

"Ah… a new mission, perhaps?"

"Maybe… now," said Talal as they walked up the stairs to the library. "You stopped by Chiara's as well, did you not? I know you wouldn't have been a day late just talking to the Italian Assassin's tech guys."

The younger assassin smirked beneath his hood. "Actually… it was Chiara, Francesca and Giulia. They just finished a mission when I arrived and I thought they would enjoy a night out on the town."

"Did you now?"

"Incoming!" shouted a shrill voice, coming from a closed door on the side of the corridor.

Both assassins ducked into alcoves alongside the corridor, both knowing what an 'Incoming!' meant, especially with a somewhat-crazy Master Assassin inventor and a partially-crazy Greater Assassin house-elf assistant in residence.

As an explosion filled the air, the door nearly flew off its hinges. A second later, smoke began to seep out through the space between door and wall.

"What do you think it was now?" asked Talal, peering out of his alcove. "What were they supposed to be working on today?"

"I think the new heating runes for the cloaks, you know, for those missions during the winter months in Russia… and Canada."

"Oh… right… I prefer to have company for those, if you know what I mean," said Talal, throwing his friend a look, eyebrows wiggling like mad.

The younger assassin punched the other in the arm as he opened the door. "Dobby?"

"Master Harry!" shouted the two foot tall elf in his Greater Assassin white cloak, emerging from beneath a desk. "When did you arrive?"

"Just ten minutes ago. Antonio and Mario send their regards and say, I quote, 'We're gonna figure out how the fuck you guys combined a night vision _and_ a recognition system in one rune array without blowing yourselves to hell.'"

"Ha! Those fuckers got nothing on me!" said a voice, coming from beneath a desk, which now was smoking with a burn imprint of a rune on it.

"Nice to see you, too, Master Muyassar," said the teen assassin, bowing his head at the emerging Master Assassin. _He really lives up to his namesake._

"Please… you make me feel old," said Muyassar, brushing ash off his shoulder spaulder. "Now, how's that updated magical core recognition system I gave you?"

"What? He gets the new gear? What about me?" asked Talal, pouting at the doorjamb.

"Harrykins here has never failed a mission, nor has my gear ever failed while he was using it. Therefore, he is the perfect test subject for my new gear."

"The new system is working very well, Master. Thank you for the upgrade," said the young assassin, pulling his hood off so Muyassar could see the runes on the inside.

"Hmm… been upgrading yourself, have you? I don't recognize that ru-" Muyassar cut off as he examined the rune array. "Oh, my word. You didn't!"

"He didn't what?" asked Talal peering at the black runes against the white of the younger assassin's hood. "What? I'm not too good on my runes. Only know the Healing, Stunning, and Killing runes."

"He added a secondary set of runes… to boost the abilities of his other systems… and you added a concealed weapons indicator?" asked Muyassar, reading the black markings. "And a Transfiguration array to change your clothes at the touch of a seal?"

"Yep, to both. Both magical and traditional weaponry will be detected," replied the teen, pointing out the runes with his finger, despite them being behind his head. "I did that Transfiguration option so that when we enter Muggle territory, I just change my assassin clothes into a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Allows me to mix with the Muggles more easily then casting a Notice-Me-Not charm."

He smiled as Talal and Muyassar studied the runes intently. _And that's not all I've accomplished… but I should wait till later to reveal that… wouldn't want them to fall down and die on me…_

After another minute of looking at the runes, Muyassar extended his hand and shook the assassin's. "Before you leave again, might I take a look at the array?

"Of course, Master Muyassar."

"Thank you. Well done, akh, well done."

"Thank you, Master. Now, if you will excuse me, Al Mualim wishes to speak with me." With that, the youngest Grand Assassin nodded to Muyassar, turned on his heel, and left, heading for the stairs to Al Mualim's chambers, leaving Talal to chase after him.

Talal ran up the stairs and skidded to a halt, looking at the empty desk of Al Mualim. "Master?"

"Over here, Talal," called Al Mualim, his voice coming from behind a bookshelf. "Where is Harry? Did I not send you to meet him at the gates?"

"He should have been here already, Master," said Talal, looking around the room.

Both his and Al Mualim's gaze were drawn to his desk by a pair of thumps.

The teen-aged assassin they were looking for sat in Al Mualim's chair, leaning back on two legs with his feet on the desk, a paper in one hand and a pencil in the other.

"What's a six letter word for someone who works with ceramics?" he asked, looking up from his crossword, smirking beneath his cowl at the two of them.

"Potter!" shouted Al Mualim out of exasperation. _That boy is getting very good…_very_ good._

"That's it!" he cried, quickly writing the answer in the crossword. He leapt out of the chair and landed in front of the desk, letting the chair fall back onto four legs with a thump. "You wished to see me, Master?"

"Yes, Harry," said Al Mualim, walking over to stand behind his desk. "Word has arrived to me through various sources that the Templars are on the move again. A meeting of the Council of Twelve is taking place in Toronto, Canada, inside the CN Tower."

"I will leave at once," said the assassin, bowing his head at the Grand Master of the Order.

Al Mualim placed a dozen pure white feathers on the desk. "There will be guards…many of them…" He paused, searching for the right words. "I wouldn't ask this of you if I knew you wouldn't manage it…you're the only man I would trust for this."

Al Mualim shot a glance at Talal, who was leaning against a bookshelf. "No offense meant, Talal."

"None taken, Master. Harry, though the youngest Grand Assassin, has a perfect kill record and the only time he has been wounded in a fight against Templars is that time in Sicily."

Smiling a I'm-gonna-kill-you grin at his friend, the assassin walked forward, scooped up the feathers, and tucked them into a pouch at his belt. "I will be back soon."

"Very good. The targets will be meeting on the twenty-ninth of July."

**Rogers Centre, July 29, 1994…**

Rogers Centre, formerly known as SkyDome, is a multi-purpose stadium in Toronto, situated next to the CN Tower. It was noted for being the first stadium to have a fully-retractable motorized roof, as well as for the 348-room hotel attached to it, with 70 rooms overlooking the field. It is also the most recent North American major-league stadium built to accommodate both football and baseball.

At this point in time, the Centre was full to bursting. More than seventy-two thousand fans were in attendance, all cheering for their team, booing the ref's call, the traditional sounds of a baseball game.

Currently, the sky dome was open, letting the sunlight through, adding the warmth of the sun to the events. It was a perfect day for a baseball game.

If one looked closely, one with eagle-like vision might see a young man in the metal beams beneath the roof. Of course, no one had such eyesight and everyone was watching the game, not the roof.

The assassin leaned back against a vertical strut, balancing on another, his magically modified M107CQ braced against his knee. He looked through the scope, using his hood's rune sensors as much as his eyes.

_Three__ snipers on the roof…another six on the surrounding rooftops…_

He smiled as he sighted one of the snipers, paying careful attention to the sightlines of the others. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

The flash from end of the rifle's barrel and the slight kick in his hands was the only sign that the rifle had fired, at least until the sniper slumped over his rifle, a .50 cal bullet hole through his head, blood, brain matter, and bone fragments spattered against the wall behind him.

The assassin smiled at the field test of his modified bullets. They were spelled to enter the body and then, after ten seconds, vanish, leaving no way for authorities, or anyone else, to track his bullets.

_Muyassar is gonna kill for these_, he thought as he sighted the other snipers with impassive precision. Eight silent shots later, the other snipers lay in pools of their own blood and various bodily fluids.

He smiled as he slung the rifle around his shoulders and stood, his balance perfect on the thin metal beam. He jumped into the air, fell a few meters and teleported, reappearing where the former snipers now found eternal rest.

Blood squelching beneath his boots, he walked over to a hatch and kicked it open, opening a way to the air vents. With the touch of his silencing rune, he jumped into the vent and went searching, looking for his dozen targets.

_And then… there were twelve…_

**Meeting room…**

"Gentlemen, I wish you a good day," said a lean, dark haired man at the head of the table. His face had a scar running from his hairline to his jaw, a remnant of an old assassination attempt.

_Rodrigo__ Advioto… Grand Knight of the Templar Order…well, Ex-Grand Knight if I have anything to say about it._

"May the Father of Understanding guide us…" intoned the other Templars, placing a hand over their hearts.

"To hell…" called the assassin, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once. The assassin smiled as he hung from a pipe above the drop tile ceiling. He loved this type of humor, the blackest type of humor one could display.

The Templars were in disarray, all, having drawn a variety of handguns, were searching for the source of his voice. Their scramblings, so much like cockroaches when the lights were turned on, nearly had the hidden assassin convulsing as he tried not to laugh.

"Assassins," spat Rodrigo, searching the room, a Desert Eagle in hand. One had tried to kill him before, so he knew what was coming. He only hoped his luck wouldn't run out.

"Where are you?" yelled one of the Templars, backing into a corner, aiming everywhere with his handgun.

Harry released the pipe, letting himself crash through the flimsy tile ceiling. The men spun to aim in his direction as he wrapped an arm around the man's neck and gave a quick twist, breaking the man's neck. With a crack of vertebrae, one of the twelve was reduced to a corpse.

Casually dropping the body, the assassin smirked at the men.

"Who's next?"

The other eleven modern-day Templars opened fire, send a volley of hot lead at the assassin.

He simply held up his right hand, casting a wand-less Shield charm. His variant of the Protego charm was made for the purpose of deflecting physical blows rather than magical. He had once taken a bullet in the shoulder under the impression that a standard Shield charm blocked both magic and non-magic attacks. It was not the funniest event of his life, though, much to his embarrassment, Talal brought it up every now and then._ 'Remember when you got tagged by that Templar bastard in Sicily?'_

_Since the Templars have few witches and wizards, a Physical Shield is the best idea._

As the Templars emptied their guns, he smirked beneath his hood. "What's the matter? Your guns not working?"

"Damn you!" yelled one, fumbling with a reload.

"Oh? Out of bullets, are we?" asked the assassin, lowering his hand. A flick of his other hand unleashed the hidden blade, readying it for bloodshed.

He smirked, a feral grin on his face. "My turn."

As the Templars fumbled in their pockets and jackets for a magazine to replace their spent ones, the assassin lunged forward, burying his blade in the throat of one as he kicked a chair at another, sending him to the ground with a chair leg through his eye.

Blood flowed over his hand as he retracted the blade, staining his hoodie a near black red. He brought both hands to his pockets and pulled out two throwing knives in each hand.

Four flicks of his wrist later, four more Templars joined their brothers in Death's cold embrace, his throwing knives sticking out of their throats, eye sockets, and foreheads.

"Form up!" roared Rodrigo, slamming the magazine into his hand cannon. "Form up!"

The remaining four formed a wedge, Rodrigo at the point, as they, too, slid reloads into their pistols.

The assassin flicked his hand again, activating his blade mechanism. His blade slid out, ready to face the remaining Templars.

He looked up, staring down five gun barrels.

"And then there were five…" he said, smirking beneath his cowl.

Fear flickered across the four Templar's faces, shifting uneasily, throwing looks at their leader.

"Hold your ground!" barked Rodrigo, glaring at the assassin over the sights of his Desert Eagle.

The other Templars straightened and focused, resuming their aim.

"Goodbye, assassin," drawled Rodrigo as he pulled the trigger.

A thunderous crack made the room tremble as Rodrigo launched a bullet at the assassin's head.

Faster than any of the Templars could see, the assassin flicked a hand across his face.

The Templars waited, watching the assassin. After the assassin didn't fall, spray blood all over the wall, or suddenly throw his head back with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, they looked at Rodrigo, who stared at the smoking barrel of his hand cannon, disbelief on his face.

"Well, well, well… a .50 caliber bullet… surely the Templar Grand Knight could shoot and kill a lowly assassin with such a piece of devastating hardware," said the assassin, holding up his right hand, a bullet firmly held between his middle and index finger.

As incredibility took precedence on the Templar's faces, the assassin contemplated the bullet. "Hm… apparently not."

"Now… who wants to try now?"

The Templars all repeatedly pulled the triggers of their respective handguns, sending a wave of hot lead at the assassin, thunderclaps echoing throughout the room.

As the bullets flew at him, the assassin simply dodged around the bullets, not moving his feet, simply swaying from side to side, allowing the bullets to fly by without touching him.

After the Templars emptied their guns, impotent clicks echoing in the air, the assassin still stood, blade still at the ready.

The Templars reached for a reload, though all but Rodrigo froze as the assassin charged, hidden blade raised.

The first Templar he attacked tried to retreat, backpedaling as fast as he could. He fell on his back tripping over an overturned chair.

The assassin leapt over the chair, landed on the man's chest, and thrust his blade into his neck. His stained sleeve was covered with blood once again, a fact the assassin used to his advantage.

He flicked his hand at the last four Templars, flinging his enemy's blood at them. Blood splattered across the eyes of two of them, temporarily blinding them.

The assassin ran to stand between the pair. A quick stab under the jaw put one Templar on his death bed and a thrust through the heart sent the other after his brother.

He turned around slowly, glaring at the remaining Grand Knight and Templar. "And then there were two…"

"What the hell is he?" the Templar asked, dropping his gun and scrambling to hide behind the table.

"Death itself, the Devil incarnate, an Assassin," said Rodrigo, finally pulling a magazine from his suit pocket.

"You know our stories well, _Templar_," drawled the assassin, retracting his blade into the bracer. "Your time has come, Rodrigo, like so many others before you…"

Rodrigo slammed the magazine into the Desert Eagle and pulled the slide, chambering a round. "Ready to die, assassin?"

The assassin flicked his hand and sent a dagger flying through the air to land between the last Templar's eyes, not even looking at him, glaring at Rodrigo beneath his cowl.

"A duel, then?" asked the assassin, positioning his left arm at his belt, above his sword.

"A duel," replied the Grand Knight, lowering his gun to his hip.

Both opponents stared at each other, throwing hate filled glares at each other over the battle-ruined room.

As one, both flicked their arms up to aim at the other.

A blast from the assassin's arm knocked the hand cannon from Rodrigo's hand. He doubled over, clutching his numb arm to his chest. He looked at the assassin, noting the absence of any firearm in his hand, though a wisp of smoke rose from his sleeve.

"What the fuck?" asked Rodrigo, slowly flexing his hand, trying to relieve the numbness resulting from his gun being shot out of his hand.

"A true assassin always has a trick up his sleeve," deadpanned the assassin, slipping another bullet into his bracer-mounted pistol.

"Assassins: 1…" he said, activating his hidden gun.

"Templars: 0…" he finished, surveying the gaping hole in the middle of the Templar's forehead.

He looked around, surveying the twelve dead bodies of the Templar Council, the wrecked furniture, the holes in the walls, all the remainders of a miniature war taking place in a meeting room.

He looked down at his hand, the .50 caliber bullet still clutched between his fingers. _How did I manage that? I haven't activated my runes or cast any spells…_

The assassin tucked the bullet he had caught between his fingers into his belt, not giving his recent act another thought, focusing on his new souvenir to show the novices: one of the last bullets from the gun of the late Grand Knight Templar.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned his throwing knives and returned them to their sheaths. With another wave of his hand, he Vanished the two bullets he had used, eliminating any evidence to his presence.

He quickly went from corpse to corpse, staining the white feathers Al Mualim had given him with the deep red of the Templar's blood. _The Templars will be in disarray after they discover this…_

With a smirk, he disappeared with out a sound, teleporting back to Masyaf.

**Sorry it took so long to update. Just bought Red Dead Redemption a week ago and finished it tonight. Loved the game, can't wait for the sequel!**

**Muyassar=Fortunate (According to my resources)**

**Anyways…**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	5. Homecoming and Fight Club

**UnfortunatelyMortal – Well, I can't help being brilliant in my own way. Also, please note that Harry is not fourteen. It will be explained later.**

**On a side note: The ranks of the assassins were created by the author Blue Sigma, author of Zuleika's Creed. The ranks have been taken from his story and are solely his creation. Used with permission. **

**All props to him.**

**Masyaf Fortress, July 30, 1994…**

The dining hall of Masyaf was filled with noise as the assassins talked and ate, speaking of missions, friends and brothers and sisters long gone. Many left their seats to congratulate the Grand Assassin who killed the Templar Council

Al Mualim stood up, raising his goblet in the air. "I would like to propose a toast."

The multitude of assassins throughout the hall, paused in mid-sentence, stood and turned to face their Grand Master, raising their assortment of mugs, glasses, and goblets.

"To Harry Potter, our newest Master Assassin," shouted Al Mualim, his voice echoing throughout the hall. All the assassins threw back their drinks and began to clap and cheer, turning to look at the newest member of the Master rank.

The assassin in question fell back into his seat, shock washing over him as he realized what his Master had just said: He'd been promoted. He was now the youngest Master Assassin since Ezio Auditore, who had attained his Master status around the age of twenty five, according the Archives.

"Harry, please come up here," said Al Mualim, putting his goblet down and beckoning to his youngest Master Assassin.

Still numb, the assassin stood up to thunderous applause and walked to the head of the table, standing beside the Master.

"For your recent actions against the Templars, I, along with the council, have decided to award you your Master status, despite what I told you a few weeks ago," said Al Mualim, pulling a folded white over-robe from behind his chair.

The assassin smirked as he removed his various weapons, armor plates and belts, stacking them on the table. He shed his old robe and donned his new one, the hem of the robe nearly reaching his ankles. He quickly reapplied his weapons and gear, standing at attention before the Master and the other assassins.

"Behold… Master Assassin Harry Potter!" shouted Al Mualim, placing a hand on the assassin's shoulder.

The other assassins burst into applause, roaring their acceptance, shaking the hall with their voices alone.

The assassin smiled as he walked back to his seat in the corner, subjecting himself to the congratulations and back-slapping of the rest of his brothers and sisters.

**Masyaf Fortress, July 31, 1994…**

The assassin walked out of his room, heading for the courtyard. Talal had asked for the new Master to help with his novices, saying they seemed to not understand what it truly means to wield a blade. He was asked to perform a demonstration, showing the novices what a true assassin should be able to do with a sword, dagger, hidden blade, or otherwise.

As he stepped out into the sun, Talal's voice rang out, echoing throughout the crowded courtyard.

"Master Harry! Please, join us!" called Talal, beckoning to his young friend. His students smiled, stared, and gazed in awe at the sixteen year old Master.

"Good morning Talal, everyone," said the assassin, throwing a glare at Talal as he walked past, stopping at the wooden fence that surrounded the combat arena. _He just had to pick a class made up mostly of novice girls…who did I piss off in a past life?_

It wasn't that he disliked the female assassins. The problem for him was that most of them liked his legend and reputation as an Assassin rather than the man himself.

"Good morning, Master Harry," intoned the class, bowing their heads in respect.

"Akh Talal tells me that you wish to see a Master's skill with blades. I have, at his request, come to perform such… _demonstrations_," said the cloaked assassin, his expression blank as he looked at the hoods of the twenty students, most of the girls blushing as he looked them in the eyes.

"Are there any questions for Master Harry?" asked Talal, looking down the line at his students.

"Akh, please call me Harry."

"Of course," Talal said, smirking at his brother in arms. Out of the corner of his eye, a novice at the end of the line raised his hand. "Yes, Adham?"

"Can I fight him?"

Talal looked over at his friend, who nodded. "I guess so. He is a Master, so are you sure?"

"He doesn't look like much," sneered Adham, fingering the hilt of his sword. "I'm sure all the tales of his prowess are the result of him putting his tongue to the Master's boot."

Before Adham, Talal, or any of the other novices could blink, the assassin lunged forward, crossing the distance between him and Adham in an instant and glared at him beneath his hood, killing intent washing over him.

Talal began to sweat as he felt the brunt of his friends killing intent. A quick look behind him saw the novices come close to falling to their knees, some near fainting. Adham quickly backed up a pace, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to put some distance between him and the assassin.

"One more word, brother, and I'll put my blade to your throat, _novice_," he growled, eyes glowing green in the shadow of his cowl.

Just as the killing intent flared up, it disappeared. The assassin smirked as he turned away and walked to the ring. "Perhaps you can put my tales to rest. Come."

The assassin leapt lightly into the ring and walked to the center.

Adham looked at Talal, silently pleading for him to get him out of this. Talal grinned savagely and pointed to the ring, his meaning clear: get in there and get what's coming to you.

Adham entered the ring and stood a distance away, nervously shifting from foot to foot.

The assassin bowed his head, respectfully, though Adham clearly did not deserve it.

Most assassins, in practice duels, began with the small formality of respecting each other, sometimes exchanging greetings or wondered how the family was.

And then some merely nodded at each other. It was the unspoken language of the badasses. The nod meant "I am a badass, and I recognize that you, too, are a badass."

Adham, as soon as the assassin's eyes left his, charged, raising his sword to perform an overhand slice. He smirked as he began the slice, his blade arcing towards the assassin's unprotected head.

As the girls gasped, Talal hurried forward, drawing his own blade, intending to stop Adham's blade. They all froze at the new sight in front of them.

The assassin hadn't even drawn his sword, much to Talal's surprise. He had stepped into the attack and threw a punch, knocking Adham back a step. Dazed from the blow, Adham momentarily forgot about his attack.

The assassin, not allowing Adham a second to recover, used the same arm to snap an elbow strike into his opponent's jaw and then punched him with his left, leaving him to fall flat on his back, knocked unconscious.

Talal smirked, shaking his head at his friend. "You always liked to use your fists over blades, don't you?"

"The human weapon, when used correctly, can be one of the most effective weapons known to man," replied the assassin, looking over his shoulder at his ex-mentor and the rest of the class. "Any questions?"

Ten minutes later, the novices were practicing simple disarming techniques. Talal was circulating, pointing out flaws, adjusting stances and movements, and giving guidance on proper technique.

The assassin had paired himself with one of the students, since Adham was still unconscious and there were an odd number of students left.

"When I attack, step forward, throw a punch at the jaw, grab the wrist with your left hand and use your right to break his elbow. From there, pull the weapon out of his hand," said the assassin, demonstrating the action against an imaginary opponent.

"May I try?" asked the female assassin, stepping forward into her senior's range. "I think I understand it now."

"Let's see," said the assassin, smirking as he adopted his customized fighting stance. The novice dropped into the standard attack stance, waiting for the assassin's next move.

The assassin stepped forward, swinging his sword down and across, as if do slice the female novice from shoulder to opposite hip.

She stepped into the attack, throwing a punch to his jaw as she blocked the sword arm with her forearm. Her fist stopped a millimeter from his face, close enough to feel the power behind the blow.

Looking over her fist, the assassin tilted his head, his smirk growing larger as he realized she could have knocked him out, if she had connected.

Grabbing his wrist, she pulled her arm back and slammed into the underside of his arm. If he hadn't twisted his arm at the last second, she would have made his elbow exceed one hundred and eighty degrees, an incident that he'd experienced before at the hands of Talal, back when he was training.

From there, she pulled the sword out of his grasp and quickly stepped out of arms reach, returning to her attacking stance.

The assassin clapped slowly, smiling beneath his cowl. "Good. Very good."

She blushed at his praise and tossed the sword back to him. As he snatched it out of the air, she asked, "Again?"

He smiled, stepping forward, on the attack once more.

Two hours later, the bells rang out, signaling the eleventh hour. All the students slumped, allowing themselves to fall out of their stances, exhausted, as the bells also signified the end of their combat class.

Despite the two hours of exercise, the two Master assassins stood side by side at the center of the arena, as if they hadn't done anything strenuous.

"What do you think, Harry?" asked Talal, watching his students stagger tiredly out the gate of the arena, a smile flickering across his lips.

"Adequate," replied the assassin, his face expressionless.

"That's all?" asked Talal, turning to glare at his friend. "Adequate?"

"They've only trained for one year," said the assassin, turning away. He walked out of the arena, heading for the main gates. "I've trained for fourteen…"

**Masyaf Outskirts, Midnight…**

Two assassin ran across the desert, heading for a crowd. "Come on! We're gonna be late!"

A crowd had assembled in the desert; their only illumination was the light of the full moon.

Despite this late hour and limited lighting, many had paired up and began practicing and/or sparring, not seriously, just warming up.

The bells of Masyaf rang out twelve times, signifying the end of one guard shift and the start of the unofficial Fight Club of Masyaf.

"So what are the rules again?" asked the second of the pair, pausing just before the start of the fight ring.

"The seven rules are and always were simple: Never talk about Fight Club…Never talk about Fight Club…No weapons other than fists and feet…If someone says stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over…One fight at a time…No tattoo-runes…No names…No mercy…" intoned his friend, staring at the center of the ring.

Due to the fact that everyone the Council questioned denied the existence of the battle club, they let it pass as long as no one died. Their reasoning: It's more training for the assassins.

All competitors wore their hoods and a face mask, making it difficult for any of them to accurately choose an opponent who would be an easy challenge. This forced most lower class assassins to watch and wait, looking for the one slip up that would separate a weaker opponent from the crowd. A useful skill for when the assassins go out for jobs around the world, since, in their line of work, they have to identify their target, his or her bodyguards, and any undercover guards as well.

Traditionally, the club had been formed for the sole purpose of training, despite the fact that many novices risked ending up against a Greater-, Grand-, or, the absolute worst, a Master Assassin. Over the years, competitors began to bet on the winner of the fight. In addition to the outside betting, both of the competitors would bet an amount and the winner would take all.

Most novices braved the ring as a way to increase their income, since very few missions were of their level.

To start a fight, one merely had to walk into the center of the ring and wait. That person always ran the risk of being challenged by higher ranks, since most could tell by the way he moves what rank he was.

One such assassin stepped forward out of the crowd. He began to draw his weapons, putting them blade first in the ground. A Syrian blade, short blade, hidden blade, and various throwing knives soon littered the ground like a small garden of steel.

Unfortunately, most of the regulars recognized the assassin who now stood in the middle of the circle.

Most assassins wore the typical assassin garb, though some had their own custom modifications, such as more pouches or extra knife slots. It was much harder to tell a veteran from a novice since they all look nearly the same.

This assassin, however, had changed his robes to be unique. His white robes were now matte black, a shadow amongst the white crowd. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulder, displaying black tribal tattoos and leaving muscular arms bare to the elbows.

Veterans of the fight club had nicknamed him Altaїr, in honor of the famed Masyaf assassin of the Third Crusade, due to his prowess in battle. He had taken on all comers, in varying numbers, and beaten them with what appeared to be relative ease.

Out of all the participating assassins, he was the most dangerous.

The first assassin swore, shaking his head. "Shit. Altaїr's come out to play. Who's gonna fight him now?"

"What's up with him?" asked the second, confused.

"This guy has taken apart every opponent he's fought. He took on fifty Masters at once and came out without a scratch."

"Shit."

A second assassin stepped into the ring, smiling beneath her hood.

Like the assassin, her uniform was made to stand out in the crowd. The sleeves of the white over robe had been cut off at the shoulder, leaving her arms bare to the elbows, where the typical assassin bracers were. Rune tattoos marked her left shoulder, running from her bicep to the top of her shoulder. Ancient symbols for speed and strength, noted Altaїr, watching her approach. Most assassin tattoo runes were invisible unless active

The robe was also cut just below her the bottom of her rib cage, displaying a lean stomach, a silver hoop glinting at her navel in the moonlight.

The wide leather belt that all assassins wore hung low around her hips, more like a sarong than anything else.

She appeared as if she was stalking the assassin in the middle of the ring, a seductive, predator-like roll in her hips. Altaїr smiled, allowing himself to enjoy the sight of feminine hips swaying in all their splendor.

This assassin was the second to become a noticeable competitor in the Club. They called her Dancer, since most of her attacks looked like dance moves rather than actual strikes to the untrained eye. She was the best female assassin in the Club.

"Oh, great! Dancer versus Altaїr… this is gonna be quick, one way or another."

Altaїr and Dancer had never fought against each other, both taking time to analyze the other by watching various fights. Now they knew each other's movements almost as well as they knew their own.

"Finally… the famed Altaїr…" purred Dancer, slowly walking in front of Altaїr, trailing a finger across his chest. "It's a… _pleasure_ to meet you."

Altaїr watched her, turning his head as she walked around him, always keeping an eye on her. He fought a smile as she realized her usual tactic of unnerving an opponent wasn't working, though he nearly smirked as he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling.

"Dancer…" rasped Altaїr, his voice like sandpaper. His head dipped, as if he was looking her over from head to toe, and licked his lips. A flash of green could be seen beneath his cowl as he said, "Perhaps we could arrange a better time for such... pleasantries."

Dancer blinked, surprised and instantly wary. No one had turned her own technique on her before, a fact that made her feel a slight twinge of fear. _He's not a normal assassin, I know it._

Altaїr allowed the smirk to emerge as he started his own circling, keeping Dancer in front of him. He switched his stance, changing from his right side to his left, prompting the same from Dancer.

Dancer had the traditional fighting stance: both fists up, one guarding with ability to strike while the other acts as the main strike. She leaned back slightly on her back leg, both legs bent, feet in and L-style stance.

Altaїr's style was unique, developed over a period of years and refined through hours of practice. Due to its uniqueness, he rarely used outside the Fight Club. If he did use it, it was when fighting enemies who would no longer be around to recognize it.

His back hand was raised, just under jaw level, fingers splayed as if they were claws. His other hand was in a low knife hand, ready to block almost any low strikes and kicks.

They continued to circle, looking for any weaknesses. As they moved, they tightened the circle, soon coming within arms reach of each other.

Altaїr stomped his leading foot, acting as if he were about to charge. Dancer sprang back, easily jumping a meter away, landing in her stance.

She looked to find Altaїr in the same position, his boot's heel still in the sand. The assassin just stood there, smiling. The assassins around the ring megan to whisper to each other. They all knew he was good at faking his charges, making them seem real enough. Most competitors thought the fake rushes were real and the real ones were fakes. It was an amateur trick for him.

_Damn him_, thought Dancer, clenching her fists in anger. _He's making me look like a fool._

They resumed circling. Dancer launched a few jabs at Altaїr, though they were ineffective. Every time her fist came close enough to strike, Altaїr leaned to the side, missing her fist by the narrowest margin possible.

His own blows were the same, missing by millimeters, brushed aside by lightning quick hands. His attacks, however, had a simple purpose: to latch onto Dancer's wrists or shoulders so he could bring her into range of his Kyoshu-jutsu.

After a couple of revolutions, Altaїr stomped again, once again causing Dancer to retreat, though she stopped herself from jumping that far away. What she didn't expect was her back foot to be off balance, as if she had stepped back on to a ramp. She looked down, wondering why she was losing her footing.

Dancer had stepped into the depression made by Altaїr's boot, created when he first stomped the sand.

Off balance, she slipped out of her stance for an instant, trying to regain her footing. She looked back up, trying to find her black-clad opponent. Empty desert surrounded her, ringed by the other assassins who were as confused as she was.

"Altaїr 3:16," said the assassin, his voice seeming to come from every direction at once.

After checking every direction, Dancer had a sinking feeling. There was only one direction she hadn't checked: up.

"Death from above," said Altaїr, falling from the sky, a fist raised for a punch.

Dancer raised both arms in a defensive position, ready to block. Then Altaїr did something unexpected: he didn't punch. Rather, he grabbed her right arm as he flipped over her head, bringing her to the ground with him. Dancer twisted as she was dragged down, trying to land upright.

She succeeded… mostly

This ended with them in a rather awkward position: Altaїr on his back, Dancer's right wrist caught in his hand; Dancer on top, straddling the black-clad assassin.

"Well, this is a predicament," said Altaїr, grinning up at Dancer. Before she could react, whether to pummel him or try and escape his grasp, he quickly reached over and tapped a series of points on her arm, starting at the crease in her elbow and leading up to her neck.

fiveprecise strikes, each hitting a pressure point in the right sequence. Dancer's eyes rolled up under her hood and she collapsed, falling headfirst into Altaїr's shoulder.

The assassins around the ring were struck dumb by the result. The fight had only been a few minutes long, though the skill level displayed was far beyond what most of them could achieve.

Altaїr stood, lifting Dancer in his arms, and walked towards the border of the ring. As he approached, the assassins parted, letting him pass through unopposed.

A snap of his fingers had all his weapons flying after him, causing some assassins to duck out of the way or be perforated. As the blades reached him, they sheathed themselves. After the last click of a knife sliding home, he disappeared, the afterimage of him walking fading to nothing.

**Sahara Desert…**

Dancer sprang upright, sore but instantly alert despite being unconscious for about half an hour. A bed was beneath her, black sheets pooling around her waist. _Where am I?_

A quick look around saw ancient stone both above her head and behind her. In front of her were stone columns, worn but strong. Many papers were stuck on the walls, held firmly by knives, tacks, and other various pointy objects.

Between a pair of columns, Dancer could see a patch of dark sand, indicating it was still dark outdoors. _How long have I been out_, she wondered as she threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Are you feeling better?" rasped Altaїr, sitting Indian-style on the roof, just behind her head.

Dancer leapt out of the bed with a shriek, landing about seven feet from the bed. She spun around and dropped into a fighting stance.

"Apparently…" drawled Altaїr, putting a palm on the ceiling and used it to lower himself to the floor. "Any side affects?"

"Where the fuck are we?" yelled Dancer, still in her stance.

"Sahara desert, my 'lair,' as it were," he said, tilting his head as he looked over Dancer. A flash of green tinted the shadow beneath his cowl. "Well, no lasting damage anyway."

"How do you figure?" asked Dancer, dropping her fists and straightening out of her fighter's crouch.

"I redid my HUD runes. My hood is more advanced," said Altaїr, walking to one of the walls, pulling a paper from the wall. "Take a look."

Altaїr tossed her the sheet, which she caught. A quick look saw about thirty different runes, all connected by thick black lines.

"I know most of the common runes, even some of the advanced ones…" muttered Dancer, looking for a familiar rune. "I can't find a single rune I recognize."

"Well, Farah, I invented those," said Altaїr, leaning against the wall.

As the recently identified Farah looked up in shock at the mention of her name, Altaїr smiled.

"What? You think I didn't know?" he asked, dropping the raspy voice. He began to chuckle, knowing her response.

Farah froze at the sound of a familiar voice. Dropping the rune covered paper, she walked over and pushed back 'Altaїr's' hood, revealing messy black hair and piercing green eyes.

"Harry?"

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	6. Revelations and the World Cup

**Ultimate-Zelda-Fan – Hm… interesting thought.**

**Lord of No Fate – You would dare sic Altaїr on me? How can you send someone after himself?**

**Harry's Lair, August 1, 1994…**

'Altaїr' smirked, stretching a scar on his lips, as his friend's jaw dropped open, recognizing him for the famed Master Assassin he was. He walked over and gently placed a finger under her chin.

"Careful," he said, closing her mouth. "We wouldn't want you to catch flies."

Farah acted as if she was attempting to speak, but the sounds never made it out of her mouth.

After a minute of her opening and closing her mouth, she asked, "When did you figure out who I was?"

This made Harry smile as he turned to the entrance and began to walk out, beckoning to her over one shoulder. "Come, I'll show you."

As they exited the ruins, Harry pointed back to the ruins, indicating the top of the ruins hidden by a giant dune. A quick apparition had the pair on top of the dune.

Harry pointed down the slope, causing Farah to gasp.

The dunes behind Harry's lair was shaped like a cove, sand forming walls that isolated this small section of desert from the rest of it. Harry grinned as Farah recognized the area.

This dune was also the site of Farah's training zone, the one where she trained her moves as Dancer.

"It's amazing what my security runes can pick up," said Harry, tapping one finger on the side of his head. "I've watched you train during the times that I wasn't."

Farah glared at the black-haired assassin, making his smile grow. "You're a stalker!"

"Ah… no. I was here first, therefore, had you known I was here, you would have been stalking me," said Harry, dodging a quick punch. "Easy now!"

Farah smiled, good naturally throwing an elbow into his ribs. "Nice to know someone takes their work seriously."

"So, now what?" asked Harry, turning away from Farah's training area. "Are you going to expose the identity of Altaїr?"

Farah opened her mouth to answer, but was immediately tackled off the roof. She rolled down the sandy slope, protected by Harry's arms, the displaced sand flying through the air marking their passage.

At the bottom, Harry released Farah and sprang to his feet, drawing his sword with his right hand, his left palm crackling with pulsing green energy.

"What's wrong?" asked Farah, drawing her own sword.

"Someone's coming. My wards have been breached," said Harry, a tinge of green lighting the shadow beneath his hood.

Farah turned away, placing her back to Harry's as she scanned the other dunes. "I don't see anything.

"You're not supposed to," said Al Mualim, appearing out of the shadows.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Dancer, Altaїr," he said, smiling at his assassins as their eyes widened slightly at the mention of their Fight Club identities.

"Good evening, Master," intoned Harry, bowing his head in respect, Farah copying his motion.

"A pleasure as always, Altaїr."

"If I may, Master," said Harry, tilting his head slightly. "How do you know of my alias?"

"Every time you've fought, I've been in the crowd," said Al Mualim, grinning as Harry's jaw dropped. "I'm also the one who suggested the nickname, since I've seen the skill Altaїr displayed back during the Crusades."

"You named me?" asked Harry, touching a seal on the palm of his gloved hand, activating the Transfigurement of his Altaїr robes to that of the normal assassin.

"Well, after seeing you wipe the floor with the Twelve Guards, I had to name you something… dramatic… besides, one of the Seers seems to think you're Altaїr reincarnated," said Al Mualim, smiling.

"You know, I really wanted to talk to you about the prowess of your fabled Twelve Guards," aid Harry, dusting off his shoulder. "They sucked."

"Yes, I realized that as I watched you beat them."

Farah smiled as she watched the exchange. _It's almost like their family rather than commander and soldier_, she thought as she, too, activated a rune, changing her uniform to that of the assassins.

"Now, I'm not here for a social call," said Al Mualim, his abrupt mood swing from joking to seriousness giving Harry whiplash. "The Seers have had another vision."

This had Harry's attention. The Seers of Masyaf have predicted many things and a stunning ninety-nine point nine percent of their predictions came true. Their predictions had saved many lives, though they always claimed the life of one or more.

"Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, will be returning this year. He will use the Tri-Wizard Tournament as a way to pull the strongest witch or wizard from the group and use that student to enact a ritual to give himself a body."

Harry threw his arms up in the air and walked a few paces away. "Haar'chak!"

Farah looked at him weird, not understanding the language he had spoken. _I know six different languages… I don't know that one…_

Harry, noticing the look, said "What? Never heard of Mando?"

Farah and Al Mualim rolled their eyes and exchanged amused glances as Harry ended his dramatics for the hour.

"So, I assume that I'm to go to Hogwarts?" asked Harry, smirking as he began to plan torture for the man who killed his parents.

"Since Sirius Black is still at large and Hogwarts is hosting the Tournament, Headmaster Dumbledore will probably want a security force on site to keep things under control," said the Master, stroking his beard with one hand.

"Team?" asked Harry, his grin widening. "Choice or assigned?"

"Fourteen assigned, though you can pick two personally," said Al Mualim. "That is, if you chose to accept it."

Harry pulled his hood back up, smiling beneath his hood. "Farah, want to go to Europe?"

Farah brought a hand to her jaw and adopted a thinking pose. "Let's see… I've got nothing going this year. Sure, why not."

"Master, I accept the mission."

"Excellent… now, sometime this week, go to Hogwarts and convince Albus Dumbledore to hire your team as a security force," he said, before disappearing soundlessly via Apparition.

**Headmaster's office…**

The assassin smirked as he hung from the ceiling, watching the elderly Headmaster work. It had been easy to enter the castle, as he had done so on two separate occasions and things had not changed.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, sifting through the large amount of paperwork he had to go through in order for the Tri-Wizard Tournament to be hosted at Hogwarts. A number of silver instruments on a desk near the corner were clicking and whirring, adding an almost relaxing rhythm to the room. Some produced small puffs of colorful smoke, though their meaning was unknown to the hidden assassin.

A bowl containing sweets was on the corner of his desk, just within reach of the Headmaster. By the smell, the assassin assumed it was Sherbet Lemons, a sweet and tangy treat that Dumbledore had developed an addiction to about ten years ago.

A strange perch sat a few feet away from the desk. It had the traditional bar on which a bird would sit, though it had a strange tray beneath it. Its purpose became clear when, in a small burst of flames, a phoenix appeared and flew to the perch, trilling happily to its companion.

"Hello Fawkes," said Dumbledore, taking a break from his paperwork to speak to his familiar.

"What do you mean 'there's a man on the ceiling?'" asked Dumbledore, slightly confused. He looked up and saw nothing but the pale stone of the roof, no trace of any man to be seen.

"Damn… your phoenix is good, Professor Dumbledore. The last phoenix I met didn't even sense me until I was actually touching it," said the assassin, still invisible.

"You have me at a disadvantage, stranger. I can't see you and I assume you can see me."

The assassin leapt off the roof and allowed himself to succumb to the pull of gravity, pulling him towards the ground. At the last possible second, he flipped himself around and fell, light as a feather, on his feet.

"You may call me Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, Albus Dumbledore," said the assassin, his face emotionless beneath his hood. "I've come to offer my services and those of a number of colleagues as well, for the right price of course."

Dubledore, startled to say the least, stood up from his chair and stared at the man who stood before him. _Fawkes isn't reacting to him as if he were unfriendly. Perhaps he's just a messenger…_

"Who- and what- are you?" asked Dumbledore, slowly circling the desk to stand in front of the man, trying in vain to see his eyes beneath the cowl he wore._ His outfit seems familiar for some reason…_

"That would be telling, Headmaster," said Altaїr, standing at ease before one of the most powerful wizards in the world. "Since Hogwarts will be hosting the Tri-wizard Tournament, the Master thought it would be prudent for us to propose a deal."

"Who is your 'master?'" asked Dumbledore, still reeling from the fact that he had not sensed the man at all.

"That is neither here nor there. There are dangerous criminals on the loose, the infamous Sirius Black among them. Since we know he came to Hogwarts last year, we have reason to believe that he might come back," said the assassin, turning away from Dumbledore and walking about the room. He stopped at a table in the corner and lifted a small glass sphere. "A wytchlight? I haven't seen one of these in a long time."

"Now I know where I heard about that uniform," said Dumbledore, a memory from a year ago surfacing at the mention of Sirius Black. "You're an assassin."

"Very true, though I wouldn't call us that to our faces. Some of us do not appreciate it," said Altaїr, replacing the wytchlight on the desk.

"Whatever your preference in the name of your occupation, why would I trust a killer with the safety of my students?" asked Dumbledore, trying to remember exactly what Ms. Granger had said about the two white-clad warriors that she had seen a year ago.

"I have trained for fourteen years. Every single day that I'm not on missions, I'm training," said Altaїr, walking slowly towards the elderly wizard. "I've fought upwards of fifty highly-trained men of my Order and walked away with little to no injuries. I've fought rabid werewolves in their home territory. I've walked into the crypts of Dark vampires and eliminated them all with out a scratch. I've killed more Dark creatures than I can count."

Altaїr stopped a pace away from the Headmaster, his stance tense but non-threatening. "Do you doubt my skills?"

Dumbledore paused, contemplating what the assassin had just told him. _If he's telling the truth… we could use men like him for the security of Hogwarts._

"My thoughts exactly, Professor Dumbledore," said the assassin, his lips twisting into a slight smile. As Dumbledore gave him a questioning glance, the assassin simply said, "I am also proficient in the arts of Legilimency and Occlumency."

Dumbledore's legs nearly dropped out from under him. _He read my mind and I didn't even notice? Impossible._

"If you think that, you really don't belong in this world. Everything is possible," said the assassin, turning away from the professor. He walked to the door, opened it and paused.

He looked over his shoulder and said, "Think about the offer. If you want our services," he said, casually drawing a throwing knife. He hurled it into Dumbledore's desk, the blade moving faster than the Headmaster's eyes could follow. "Touch the rune on the dagger and I'll be back to talk."  
With that, he Disapparated silently, letting Dumbledore slump to sit on the edge of his desk, wondering how even he couldn't Apparate through the castle's wards, yet the white-clad assassin just did.

**World Cup Stadium, August 14, 1994…**

The stadium that housed the 422nd Quidditch World Cup was immense. One could only see so much of the giant golden walls, in which about ten cathedrals could fit in comfortably.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards, young and old alike, were taking their places in the seats which rose in levels around the long oval pitch. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden glow that seemed to come from the stadium itself.

From high above the field, the pitch looked as smooth as velvet. At either end of the pitch stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high. Opposite of the highest box was a gigantic blackboard; gold lettering flashing advertisements dashed across it as if an invisible giant's hand was scrawling upon it and before wiping it clean again.

Around the top of the stands, giant lights sat embedded in spike-like formations. Of course no one noticed this, choosing to pay attention to the field than the lighting.

Standing atop the spike, an assassin balanced himself perfectly, silently watching the game. He chose this spot for a reason, as the white light hid him perfectly in the shadows behind the light.

"Ladies and Gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of four hundred and twenty second Quidditch World Cup!" shouted the announcer, his voice booming from every corner of the pitch.

Thousands of spectators clapped and screamed, thousands of them waving their flags and adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The giant blackboard wiped itself clean for the last time before displaying _Bulgaria: 0_ and _Ireland: 0_.

The assassin winced slightly, the crowd's cheers sending a wave of feedback into his cowl. _God damn… I got to talk to Muyassar about feedback with these things_, thought the assassin, tapping the side of his head, reducing the sensitivity of his audio-runes.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian Team Mascots!"

The assassin activated the zoom function on his HUD to see the tiny figures making their way out onto the pitch. _Ah, Veela_, he thought, watching them saunter onto the field and begin to dance. He smirked as he watched the reactions of the male populace, the charm the Veela were putting off making them act quite strange. The assassin himself had never felt the allure that Veela were said to put out, though it was apparent that their dancing was magically seductive to males, judging by the flexing and posturing the men were doing.

The music stopped and the dancing Veela returned to their seats along the outside of the pitch. The andgry yells from the crowd made it clear that they didn't want the Veela to leave.

"And now," roared the announcer, "kindly puts your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

A second after the announcement, a green and gold comet came soaring into the stadium. It performed a circuit of the pitch before splitting into two smaller comets, each arcing towards the goalposts. Once they reached the goalposts, a rainbow connected the two comets, bathing the pitch in a multitude of colors. After a multitude of 'oohs' and 'ahhs,' the pair of comets left the goalposts and rejoined each other, now forming a giant shamrock in mid-air, raining gold down upon the heads of the spectators.

The assassin refocused his HUD and saw that the comet was actually a multitude of leprechauns, each holding a lantern of green or gold. The shamrock dissolved and the leprechauns floated down to the pitch on the opposite side of the Veela.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov!"

A scarlet-cloaked figure blurred out to the field from an entrance far below to wild applause.

"Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! And Krum!"

Each name was punctuated by another red blur, each one forming up on the tail of the first. They took a lap of the pitch before lining up on their side of the pitch, red robes flapping in their wake.

"And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled the announcer. "Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! And Lynch!"

Several green blurs swept onto the pitch. A few taps on the side of his hood slowed down the blurs enough so that the assassin could read their names off their backs and the tiny 'Firebolt' inscribed on their broomsticks.

The mass of green that was the crowd screamed and cheered as the Irish team circled the pitch, their flags waving in the air.

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quiditch, Hassan Mostafa!"

A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a giant mustache, wearing golden robes to match the pitch, strode out onto the pitch. A silver whistle protruded from under the mustache and he carried a large wooden crate under one arm.

He put the crate on the pitch floor, mounted his broom and kicked the crate open. The four balls burst from the crate: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the miniscule Golden Snitch.

The assassin smiled as the referee blew his whistle and started the game, though the assassin's eyes didn't follow the Quaffle as the other fans did. He was watching the path of the Snitch, his eyes tracking it across the pitch with great accuracy.

The Irish Chasers were superior, quickly scoring goal after goal. Bulgaria, on the other hand, was doing badly, barely making a single goal against the superior Irish team's chaser.

Everyone gasped as Krum and Lynch went into a steep dive, hurtling towards the ground as fast as their brooms could carry them. At the last possible second, Krum pulled out of the dive, leaving Lynch to smash into the ground with a thud that was audible to the crowd.

_Well, well… the Wronski Feint. Not bad for a guy still in school_, thought the assassin as he continued to watch the Snitch, currently circling the goalposts on the Bulgarian side of the pitch.

The game continued till Krum and Lynch went into a second dive. Once again, Lynch was left to slam into the dirt while Krum spiraled off, the Snitch firmly clutched in his hand.

The crowds went ballistic, seeing how the score was Bulgaria: 160, Ireland: 170.

The Irish team took a lap of victory, the slightly rattled Lynch held up by two of the Chasers, before they went towards the top box where the gleaming Quidditch Cup stood waiting with the minister of Magic.

The assassin was surprised to find that the redhead and Ms. Granger were in the box as well, surrounded by what looked like the rest of the redhead's family. One face in particular made him do a double-take.

He shook himself, remembering his duty: one of the thousands here had to die today. The problem was it had to be done secretly. This disappointed the assassin as he could not cause a large amount of destruction like he usually does.

The man he sought was three seats below his position, cheering on Ireland's win over Bulgaria. This particular wizard was nothing special, though he had made a fatal error: he had joined the Templars.

Unbeknownst to him but knownst to us, death awaited the wizard, soon to be delivered by one of the best.

A quick jump had the assassin landing behind the wizard unfortunate enough to be his target. A quick stab in the shoulder was all that the assassin needed before he disappeared, quickly Disapparating too quickly for anyone to notice.

The wizard was dead, though he didn't even know yet. The assassin had merely pricked the man, though the damage was done.

The blade had been modified and strengthened, allowing a hollow blade without compromising the integrity of the blade. Through this cleverly hidden needle/blade, poison could be delivered straight into the victim, usually causing the poisonee to feel drowsy, very violent and, finally, die.

_Quite enjoyable to watch_, thought the assassin, once again standing atop a spike, though this time he was across the pitch, watching the man start swinging his arms and stumble around, knocking into the other spectators and generally causing a ruckus.

Within a minute, the wizard collapsed, missing a crucial part of living: a pulse.

_Mission completed_, thought the assassin as he turned away from the pitch. He smiled as he spread his arms and dove off the side of the pitch, hurtling down to the darkness below.

**Later that night…**

The assassin smiled as he lifted a pint, celebrating the Irish win along with the rest of their fans. _I've completed my kill, though something still feels amiss_, he thought as he swallowed the Irish stout. _I suppose it will be better to wait and see what happens rather than hear about it later._

His assassin robes had been Transfigured into regular clothing: a white hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. Even if he wore his uniform, people would probably be to drunk to notice. This is why he loved being among the Irish.

An explosive bang made everyone jump, even though the fans had been setting of fireworks all night long. This burst of sound was a lot closer to the ground than the fireworks however, which made the assassin sigh and put down his drink.

_There's always something_, thought the assassin, sighing as he activated his rune HUD, allowing him to stride through the growing cloud of smoke with little difficulty. He had made it about ten feet away from the makeshift bar before he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back to the bar.

Grabbing his mug, he quickly downed the rest of his Wizard Guiness, enjoying the taste of the liquid courage. _Damn… the Irish know how to make an excellent drink._

Slamming the mug down, he turned around and charged into the chaos.

A dozen odd men in black cloaks and skull white masks were marching on the campgrounds, occasionally blowing a tent out of their path. Flames leapt around them, making them flicker spookily in the night. Above them floated the non-magic's that ran the campground: the park manager, his wife and their two children.

The Death Eaters roared with laughter as they spun their wands, causing the levitating Muggles to spin like tops, becoming whirring disks in mid-air.

The Death Eaters were so focused on having a blast, reliving the glory days of Voldemort's reign, that they didn't notice the assassin until it was too late.

The first fell to the ground, a blade having severed his neck, cutting clean _through_ his vertebrae, his white masked head falling to the ground in silence as the Death Eaters realized that one of their number had fallen. They stared at the corpse, still standing upright.

The corpse collapsed, falling to its knees before falling on its side. His temporary cover of the dead man now gone, the assassin smirked beneath his cowl, the blood of the man at his feet dripping off his blade to mix with the dirt at his feet.

Baring his teeth in a fear-inspiring grin, he asked, "Who's next?"

The Death Eaters looked at each other and acted as one: They Disapparated, leaving the assassin standing amidst the ruins of the campground, flames burning higher around him.

"Forward!" shouted a voice, coming from behind the assassin. He turned to see a large group of Aurors and Ministry officials surge out of the smoke, wand ready for battle.

He sighed as they stopped, staring at the one man in the middle of the clearing of scorched earth._ This is going to be difficult to explain back at HQ_, he thought, quickly slashing his blade to fling off the blood.

He noticed one man in particular: a red haired man wearing shabby robes. He winked at the assassin, holding up his left hand, the ring finger bent down, leaving only part of the digit in view.

The assassin nodded slightly before shifting his focus back to the Aurors assembled before him.

After a moment of awestruck silence, the Aurors seemed to come to and attacked, flinging a multitude of curses and Stunners, all aimed to not only hit him but to blanket the area in spell crossfire, just in case he were to dodge the spells that were intended to hit him.

A flash of light filled the air as the assassin simple held up his hand, drawing on his own power to from a wedge of magical energy, splitting the assorted curses, hexes, and spells like Moses separating the Red Sea.

The Aurors were stunned. Not only had their target remained where he was, he had _wandlessly_ diverted their spells.

The assassin sheathed his blade and pulled a small sphere from his belt. A wave was the last thing the Aurors saw as he threw the marble sized object to the ground.

From the sphere came a giant wave of smoke, covering the entire clearing in magically Conjured smoke. The Aurors tried in vain to Vanish it, coughing and sputtering as they waved their wands and hands in attempts to ward off the smoke.

A few seconds later, the smoke slowly vanished, leaving the Aurors to stare at the empty spot were the strange man had been.

A man and woman stepped out from the tent they had been using as cover.

"Please tell me you got that," pleaded Rita Skeeter, looking at the camera man with a undisguised look of pleading. At his nod, she broke into a large smile.

_Tomorrows news, here I come._

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	7. Discussions and the Start of Term

**Lord of No Fate – Perhaps I am undercover. Why would I advertise myself to the Templars? And no, Skeeter will not be assassinated…yet. She still has a purpose in the story, though I must admit, I find it hard to get into her style of writing. Gives me shivers.**

**Kira Kyuuketsuki – I needed a name for Harry to use as he prefers his real identity to remain a secret, at least outside the Assassins.**

**Force 'Hog - #1. Random wizard who worked for Templars. #2. Good question. Keep thinking, it will come to you. #3. I'm Irish as well. Also, I never said the Irish drink more than any other country. I merely stated their wizards know how to make a good drink.**

**Please note: I copied some of the original Goblet of Fire for this chapter. This is JKR's stuff, not mine.**

**August 15, 1994. 0800, Masyaf Fortress, Al Mualim's Office…**

Al Mualim had just sat down at his desk with his customary cup of coffee and newspaper.

Things were starting off great. He had gotten a good sleep, his coffee was hot and he had no paperwork to distract him from the paper. He leaned back and sighed, totally relaxed.

He took a sip as he held up the paper, glancing at the headlines. The headlines had him doing a spit-take.

_Killer at World Cup_

_Despite the dramatic Irish win over Bulgaria, the night ended on a tragic note._

_A group of cloak wearing wizards went on a march that night, blasting tents and levitating the Muggle owners, writes_ Rita Skeeter_, Special Correspondent._

_Ministry wizards and Aurors quickly Apparated to the scene to quell the riot, though their services were not needed, as the troublemakers disappeared as quickly as they arrived._

_The Aurors and Ministry Wizards charged the area where the aggressive wizards were last seen, but stumbled to a stop when they saw what had taken their place._

_A young man in a white 'hoodie,' as the Muggles call it, stood over a corpse, its head lying a few feet from its body. The man held a large knife in his hand, the blood of the corpse still staining the silver blade._

_The man cleaned and sheathed his blade before throwing a small sphere onto the ground. It released a wave of smoke that obscured the area, allowing him to disappear, unopposed by the assembled Ministry wizards. The smoke itself was resistant to Magical dispersion, only fading after half a minute._

_The corpse of Walden MacNair, an executioner for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, has been identified by the Aurors. Questions arise from this development, mainly: why was Mr. MacNair, a Ministry servant, dressed in a black cloak and a white mask at the time of his death?_

_Going back to his mysterious killer, one must ask how the man was able to carry such dangerous weaponry into a public event, without any impediment from the Ministry._

_Apparently the Ministry security has been lax for a very long time, judging by the ease of which the mysterious killer hid his weapons._

_One can only hope the incompetent Ministry will be able to protect us at the next event._

The article was accompanied by a black and white magical photograph of the young man in question, throwing a sphere onto the ground before disappearing into the smoke. The picture then reset and began again, playing again and again.

Al Mualim set his coffee down and placed his head in his hands, slowly rubbing his temples. _There goes my good day…_

"Harry Potter!"

**August 28, 1994. 0800,Unknown location…**

Rain poured down from the dark sky, soaking the jungle floor, turning dirt to mud and beating a rhythm into the trees. The wind whipped the giant leaves of the foliage around, adding to the din of the storm.

The assassin crawled through the jungle, a rifle in one hand while the other fended off large leaves. Her uniform was smeared with mud and the jungle greenery, her breath coming fast as she swiveled her head in many directions as possible, searching for the target.

Her team had been methodically taken apart, each one falling in silence. They never knew what hit them until it was to late, their silence marking the moment when their target had made them disappear.

One by one, their indicator lights on her HUD went dark, meaning they had been taken out by their wraithlike target.

She watched the trees, the ground, the bushes, everything, almost panicking as she tried to scan every piece of moving scenery, a difficult enough task without a rainstorm.

Add in her near hysteric state of panic and you have an impossible task. Things were not looking well for the assassin.

It gets worse… the target knows where she is.

Amidst the canopy, the target, dressed in full jungle camo, smirked as he sighted down the scope of his own rifle, targeting the slowly moving assassin. _These assassins never learn_, he thought as he zoomed in on her face. She had mud smeared across it for camouflage, her eyes wild, darting about, never focusing on one thing for to long.

He breathed slowly, calmly, as he squeezed the trigger, maintaining his shot with practiced ease, honed over approximately four years of training with that particular rifle.

He smiled as the assassin's chest was knocked back by the impact of his round, red liquid blossoming above her heart, staining the white fabric.

He slid his rifle back into its sheath, specifically made to protect his rifle from all types of weather conditions, and jumped out of the tree he was currently hiding in. The camo-netting he wore blurred his shape, making him look more like a blur amongst the greenery than a man.

He walked the four hundred yards to his target, acting as if there were still more assassins out in the jungle even though he knew there weren't.

As his contact in the Ministry always said: "Constant Vigilance!"

Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody was a useful ally to have. The target smiled at the memory of how he met the battle-hardened Auror: he had been fighting near Mad-Eye's house and the aged Auror decided to lend a hand, helping the target butcher the thirty-five opponents he faced. _I still laugh at the memory of him beheading one with a Cutting Curse and then animated the corpse to crush the windpipe of another, all within three seconds._

The assassin had a look of shock on her face, her eyes frozen wide open. He chuckled as he reached up under the ghillie suit's hood and pressed two fingers to the radio headset he had placed there.

"Training exercise 42 has been completed. Endex, repeat, endex."

The jungle disappeared, slowly dissolving like a mirage fading away, leaving a large white room in its place. After that, the twelve other assassins the target had taken out woke up, the Stunning paintballs wearing off. They stood, silently rubbing their injured limbs, their bruises caused by landing on the Conjured jungle terrain.

The assassin frowned and shook his head as he shed his ghillie suit, letting it fall to the ground with a rustle of cloth. "Anyone know why you all failed?"

The assembled novices bowed their heads in embarrassment. Not only had they failed their training mission, they had done it so well that they could hear the disappointment in the voice of the most famous living Assassin.

"We Assassins work alone when necessary," said the assassin, walking around every novice in turn. "But, whenever possible, we work _together_! Every single one of you did your own thing, throwing away a tactical advantage that could have had ensured a win!"

"If the combat prowess of one assassin is of near legendary skill, imagine if you had a second along with you. That effectively squares the power of the team," barked the assassin, sounding like an Army drill sergeant. "Teamwork. Use it when you can, miss it when you can't."

Glaring beneath his hood, he grabbed his camo and threw it over his shoulder.

"Hit the showers!" he yelled, heading for the door. The slam of the door had the room shaking from the force. _I hate this job…_

**2200, Masyaf Dueling Room #3**

"Again!" barked Al Mualim, standing along the sidelines of the dueling ring. He was going through his list of candidates for the Tournament Mission, though there were some who were not on par with the requirements.

He had hand picked a group of thirty-six assassins, ranging from greater to master, all who were experts in many different fields. The ten that exceeded his expectations would accompany Harry, Farah, and a few novices.

The novices were coming along as apprentices, still learning from the higher ranks. Al Mualim believed in the 'practice through doing' philosophy. _Those novices could do worse than the best._

The two assassins in front of him were sparring again, each attempting to get the other on the ground into a 'killed' position. Meaning on the ground, pinned while the other had his hand to his throat, as if his hidden blade were lodged in his throat.

The attack was swift, almost so that Al Mualim didn't see it. The assassin had locked the other's arm and then used his own leg to kick out his opponents, leaving him to fall a meter onto the hard, unforgiving stone.

The assassin landed with a gasp, all his air leaving his lungs at once. Momentarily stunned, he had no chance to defend himself when the other assassin planted a knee on his chest and curled his fingers around his throat.

A bell chimed, signaling the kill. Al Mualim nodded and clapped his hands, politely applauding his assassin's actions, despite how one had lost.

The two assassins leapt to their feet and bowed to him before walking out the door, their work here done.

Al Mualim made a note on his visor, silently adding the final name to his list.

_The team is assembled…_ Al Mualim thought, walking back to his office, quietly humming a cheerful tune.

**August 29, 1994, Headmaster's Office**

Dumbledore looked down at the simple dagger, still embedded in his desk. All attempts to move it had been met with unmovable resistance. The damn thing was stuck in the desk, leading to several awkward questions when other staff members had come to call.

Dumbledore turned to his faithful familiar. Fawkes was sitting on his perch, trilling softly and cleaning some ash from his wings. His Burning Day had come a few days ago and the ashes of his former self were somewhat hard to remove immediately.

"Should I call the Assassin?" the aged man asked the Phoenix, a thousand different possibilities running through his mind. He brought a hand to his chin in thought, absentmindedly stroking his beard. _The Assassin's offer in intriguing, though I'm hesitant as to why they've come to us at this point in time. Furthermore, how did they know the Tri-Wizard Tournament was to be held here? Only the Ministry and I knew…their informants must be spread throughout the Ministry…_

Fawkes spoke up, trilling a beautiful tune, one that Albus recognized as a sound of encouragement. He smiled at the Phoenix, always wondering how he could cut through his musings and get right to the heart of the matter.

He placed a hand on the hilt of the dagger, pushing a small amount of magical energy into the rune inscribed on the blade.

"Ah, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," said Altaїr, appearing behind the elderly wizard. Dumbledore spun around and paused, dumbfounded, at the object held in the assassin's hands.

"You've caught me at a bad time, though I do believe you could be of assistance in this matter," said the assassin, twirling the object in one hand.

The object in question was a two foot, double-edged blade mounted on a steel hilt three feet long. The blade had two parallel blood grooves running from the hilt to just short of the tip. A gem with an odd erratic pulsing glow was embedded in the pommel, a trio of vine-like fastenings keeping it in place.

"An odd weapon, Mr. Altaїr," said Dumbledore, examining the complex rune system that stretched from pommel to sword tip. "An everlasting edge rune array. Very impressive rune work, young man…" Dumbledore trailed off as he examined the gem at the hilt. _Impossible… such a thing no longer exists!_

"Now these I haven't heard of for a long time. I thought all the Hoseki stones were destroyed during the Second Crusade."

The assassin smirked as he held out the weapon to the Headmaster. "We've been around much longer than that. Our predecessors stored about a hundred thousand or so of these in one of the ancient tombs of the Assassin Darius, the man who killed Xerxes I. Until recently, we had no use for them, nor did we know how to use them, though now I am able to use one and withdraw one for my own personal use."

"Why an orange Hoseki stone? Surely the red or blue variations imbue the wielder with more power and defensive capabilities. Even the green stones have the added effect of automatic healing," asked Dumbledore, drawing on his memory of the tales of the Hoseki stones. It was all rather vague, though accurate on some parts that count.

"A red or blue or even green stones may affect the battle prowess or the injury resistance, but I chose not to use them as they have a flaw: they draw directly from the wielder. They amplify the power, yes, though they use a small amount of extra power to fuel the effects. Take a simple Stunner, for example. A wielder of a blue or red stone would create a Stunner with three times the power of a regular Stunner, though they use a half again as much power as a regular stunner," said Altaїr, taking back his weapon and beginning to trace a new rune at the handle. "Some may say that it is an acceptable loss of power for the extra effect, though I disagree."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a few moments, contemplating the advantages of an orange stone over the rest. _The orange stone was the least known about in terms of abilities… What does this assassin know that I don't?_

"What are the properties of an orange Hoseki stone?" asked Dumbledore, coming up empty on his mental review of the Hoseki stones. "Why would you choose it over the other, more powerful stones?"

"That would be telling, Headmaster," said the assassin, pulling a pencil shaped object from his belt. "Now, I assume you know the five runes of Structural Integrity?"

Dumbledore accepted the rune-steele and started tracing the curve of the first rune. They worked in silence, listening to the faint trilling of Fawkes.

"I assume you have not activated the dagger just to discuss my new weaponry, said Altaїr, his gaze focused on the rune he was drawing. "Have you decided to accept my offer?"

Dumbledore nodded as he finished the first rune of the array and began work on the second. "I have been wondering: what are the terms of your proposition?"

"A team of sixteen of my colleagues, excluding me, will arrive at Hogwarts at the start of term feast. We will introduce ourselves to the students and will explain our purpose: We are here to keep everyone safe, by any means necessary. We will enforce your rules, whatever they are, as long as they do not go against our Creed."

"All are acceptable, thus far. What else do you require?"

"We will be allowed unrestricted access to any location of Hogwarts. If not, we can do it anyway, as you can see. Our style of magic allows us to bypass your wards," said the assassin, finishing a graceful curve on a large flowing rune. "We will police our own, so any problems your students have with us will be brought before me."

"What do you ask for payment?"

"The ability to train our newest novices is payment enough. Two of the sixteen are of the novice rank. The rest are what we call Grand's and Master's. The Master and I will be paying my higher ranked colleagues the amount they have deemed necessary to take themselves off the mission list. Basically, three and a half teams of the Order higher ranks will provide the tightest security you have ever seen."

Dumbledore set aside the steele and went behind his desk, sinking into his chair with a hand at his chin, stroking it as he mulled over his decision. On the one hand, the Order's finest would be there to provide security free of charge. On the other hand, the assassins were an unknown player, the history books having no record of such an order.

It did make sense, however, that an order of assassins had been working behind the scenes all these years. Tales spoke of Salah ad-Din being target of assassination, back when he was attempting to bring the tribes together under his banner to retake the Holy Land. His attempts to unite the people were met with resistance. Rumors circulated about how one head of a tribe had hired the Assassins, the best killers in the world, to deal with him.

One night during his time near Antioch, he spread a meter of white sand around his tent and posted guards to watch every angle. Assuming he was safe, he went to sleep, confident that his protection was more than adequate. The next morning, he awoke to the sight of a loaf of bread with a dagger stuck in it. A note was pinned to the loaf. "Leave" was the single word upon the paper.

Examination of the sand revealed no markings and the guards swore they never saw anyone.

That day, Salah ad-Din left Antioch to try and recruit some of the nomad tribes.

Sometime later, Salah ad-Din returned to Antioch. Like before, he prepared for the assassins. Salah ad-Din spread white sand two meters around his tent and stationed nearly a wall of guards. Thinking he was safe for sure, he went to sleep.

The next morning, he found a dagger pinning a note to the ground next to him, the blade nearly touching the side of his head. The words "Next time, you're dead" were written upon it. Once again, the sand was immaculate and the guards saw nothing.

Adding in the fact that Salah ad-Din was a wizard with skill in wards causes one to hesitate in believing this story. How could Assassins walk right past the defenses without leaving a single mark or alerting a single guard and leave a dagger

"Ah, the story of Salah ad-Din and the Assassins… true in every aspect. As I said, our style of magic allows us passage through wards with no reaction. Alarm wards and such do not activate, allowing us to be undetectable. Though, if the target is smart, he'll try tripwires and such, something we can not avoid using our style of magic alone."

Dumbledore smiled, still wondering how Altaїr read his mind. "Well, if the story is true, I would say that the offer of service is quite acceptable, given the fact that I get a small force of warriors for no cost."

"Excellent. We will meet again, on the start of term." With that said, Altaїr disappeared, leaving the Headmaster more confused than ever.

"How does he do that?" he wondered aloud, looking over at Fawkes.

Fawkes looked at him and shrugged, going back to his grooming. The ash was really beginning to tick him off.

**September 1, 1994. 1900, Great Hall...**

A mass of black-robed students sat at four long tables spanning the length of the hall. They all talked amongst themselves as they waited for the first year students to arrive after the traditional boat ride across the Black Lake. A few ghosts traveled amongst the students, greeting friends of the past years, asking how their summers were, were they excited for class, that sort of thing.

The doors opened and allowed a strict-looking professor and a stumbling line of soaking eleven year olds into the hall. All communication quickly died as the professor led the firsties to the end of the hall, towards where the teachers sat at their own table.

She pulled a three legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty and patched wizard's hat.

For a moment, silence reigned supreme. That is, until a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth and the hat broke into song.

As the hat finished its song, the green-robed professor unrolled a large scroll. "When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool," she told the first years. "When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table."

She began to call out the names of the first years, calling them forward. Each one placed the Sorting Hat atop their heads and, after a few minutes, the Hat would yell out the name of the House they would stay in. Some went to Slytherin, others to Gryffindor, and even others to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff.

After the Sorting ended, the professor removes the hat and stool and walked away, clearing the way for the Headmaster to address the students.

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet, drawing the respectful attention the entire student body. He was smiling around at the students; his arms open wide in welcome.

"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall, his eyes twinkling as if he knew some great joke. "Tuck in."

His announcement was met with some cheers as the golden dishes filled themselves with all sort of food, ready to be devoured by the ravenous students. Once the food had been consumed, desserts of all shapes and sizes appeared before the students.

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again.

The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.

"So!" said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

This announcement had quite a few of the students in an uproar.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -"

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling.

He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers' table.

A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.

The lightning had thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike anyone had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening.

One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words the students couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it.

He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students chapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground and below the table, students saw several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Tri-wizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" said a student loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke.

Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

"Er - but maybe this is not the time... no. . ." said Dumbledore, "where was I? Ah yes, the Tri-wizard Tournament. . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

"The Tri-wizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities - until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

The announcement of the deaths being a regular occurrence did little to curb the enthusiasm of the students, who all now turned to each other to discuss the Tournament.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Tri-wizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

"I'm going for it!" a student hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, an observer could see students either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the

Hall quieted once more.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Tri-wizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This" - Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the red-haired Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious - "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion."

His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over many of the student's mutinous faces. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected."

Dumbledore's smile grew wider as he looked over to the giant doors leading to the Entrance Hall. "The last thing I wish to announce to you all is the arrival of seventeen men and women who will be making Hogwarts a safer place. I present to you… The Assassins!" he said as he raised a hand to the end of the hall.

The doors of the Great Hall opened slowly, allowing something akin to mist to seep pout into the halls. Despite the illusion of it being slow moving, the Hall was quickly filled with the low mist, making the students shift nervously.

Out of the cloud that obscured the Entrance Hall walked a cloaked, hooded and masked figure. His cloak, hood and mask were all white in color, traditional for the assassins. His clothing, however, had various distinct markings on it.

His armor was decorated with grim looking red streaks, almost like blood spray, marking his armor in lines and arcs. The joke among the other Assassins was that it wasn't dye that marked his combat robes; it was the blood of his enemies. The assassin would smile when asked about it and reply that, if it was indeed blood, his robes would have been pure red years ago.

The shadows beneath the hood and above the mask flashed with a tinge of green as he looked around the Hall. The students felt tremors of fear crawl up their spines as the empty space beneath red spatters seemed to pierce their souls.

As he stepped away from the entrance hall, other assassins formed up behind him, their armor and markings similar, though their robes had different designs, focusing on graceful lines, tribal swirls and runic-looking symbols of various colors. Varying shades of orange, blue, green, yellow and brown were present, making the gather assassins look like a wall with varying symbols in paint.

Only two assassins that entered the Great Hall had no markings on their uniform, their robes the traditional unmarked white. These were the novices, those who still needed more training before they could attain higher ranks and begin customizing their own marked armor. Any assassin at or above the rank of

The lead assassin reached Dumbledore and inclined his head in respect. After Dumbledore returned the gesture, he spun on his heel and faced the stunned students. The rest of his group lined up on either side of him, eight assassins moving to either side of their mission leader.

"It is my honor to introduce Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad, leader of the Assassins assembled before you," said Dumbledore, indicating the assassin directly in front of him. The students felt a second twinge of fear as the assassin gave them another look, somehow exuding an almost palpable aura of lethality. "He and his team will be here for the entirety of the year. Their purpose here is to protect you all, by whatever means they deem necessary."

Altaїr turned around and stepped up to Dumbledore's section of the table, leaning over to whisper a few words. The Headmaster nodded in agreement before looking back at the students.

"Mr. Altaїr has asked me to relay that he will not be answering any questions you have tonight, due to the fact that he and his colleagues are not familiar with the layout of Hogwarts. If you wish for information about your new protectors, Mr. Altaїr has agreed to answer questions tomorrow at lunch time."

The assassin lifted his hand, fingers spread wide, before clenching it into a fist. He then pointed forward with the same hand, two fingers pointed back at the doors to the Great Hall. The assassins began to move as one, heading out of the Hall, Altaїr leading them. Dumbledore paused for a moment as he asked himself that one question he had not asked before: where are the Assassins going to stay?

He put it aside for the moment. _I'll just ask him later,_ he thought as he turned his gaze back to his students. "And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.

As the students walked towards their common rooms, the assassins leapt from the front steps, heading for the Forbidden Forest.

**Who can guess who I'm basing the Assassins off of?**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	8. Questions, So Many Questions

**I have realized something: I got twenty-odd reviews for the last chapter and I know there were at least a thousand visitors…**

**Anyone see the obvious gap between the values?**

**Sorry for the mix up in the last update. I've got my stories listed like SnC VII and HPB VII. I was running late for class and I clicked the wrong chapter.**

**NOTE: The poll will end on the 24****th**** of November, probably around 11:30 AM Eastern Time, so please go vote for the next story that you want to see.**

**September 1, 1994. 2300, Gryffindor Dormitory…**

Most of the Gryffindors sat in their beds, getting ready for bed. Some of the older students were still up, enjoying a quiet evening before the classes began tomorrow. They had been swapping stories of their summers and enjoying the sweets that Fred and George Weasley had smuggled up from the kitchens or bought form Zonko's joke shop. Somehow, a seventh year had smuggled in a few 40oz bottles of Firewhisky, getting them past the Fat Lady without incident, which led to some of the students staggering off to find their beds and some out to empty classrooms, aiming to enjoy their last night 'free.'

One of the twins happened to glance out the window and saw four floating orbs of light, illuminating a large section of the grounds near the Forbidden Forest. White cloaked figures stood around the border of the lights, their custom dye jobs blending with each others, causing him to rub his eyes as the image hurt his eyes a bit.

Taking a second look, he saw four of the Assassins he had seen at dinner attack a central figure, one who only wore a pair of bracers as protection for his upper body, his red streaked cloak, weapons and armor lying at the edge of the illuminated lawn. His face was still covered by the mask, blood streaks diagonally across his face. The young Gryffindor couldn't tell much else, only noting that the assassin had messy black hair.

Swirling tribal tattoos adorned his biceps above the bracers, the matte black body art clearly seen against the assassin's tanned skin. A pair of wing tattoos stretched across his back and down his spine, looking almost like he actually had wings. The twin blew it off as a magical effect, probably a tattoo charmed to be 3-D.

He cried in alarm as one of the Assassins swung a blade at him, its deadly edge glinting in the magical light. The semi-crowded room started as his cry split the air, their confused faces looking to him with questions written across them.

"The Assassins are fighting!" yelled the twin, pointing out the window towards the Assassin's fighting ring. He smartly stepped to the side as the entire common room charged the window, each trying to see the Assassins in action. The twin's twin cast a quick charm, causing the window to zoom in on the fighters. The face of the unmasked Master Assassin was blurred out, the twin noticed, leaving him to wonder what the man actually looked like. _He probably keeps his face hidden so he can't be recognized by his enemies or anyone else. Smart man_, thought the twin pranksters, watching the tattooed assassin dodge an overhead blow by the smallest of margins.

Their schoolmates gasped as one as they watched the assassin deftly avoid blow after blow, as if he knew where his opponents were and where they were going to strike, even those outside his field of vision. He back flipped to avoid a slice at his ankles and avoided a slice at his stomach while in mid air by flying just below the blade.

He continued to avoid the sword strikes for ten minutes, each dodge more graceful than the last, leaving the males of Gryffindor jealous as the noticed the longing looks the girls were unashamedly wearing as they watched the shirtless assassin dodge and weave, his body as graceful as a dancer, muscles rippling as he twisted and turned effortlessly.

He must have said something, causing the others to cease their attacks. They sheathed their blades and stiffly bowed to him, left hand over their chests. They were tired from the non-stop attacking they had been doing. The Master Assassin returned the bow, his movements lithe and graceful despite the acrobatics he had been performing for a solid ten minutes.

As one, the Assassins turned towards the castle and ran off, crossing the distance in seconds, disappearing out of the students sightlines despite the best efforts to keep them in view.

They looked back at the Master Assassin, still standing in the middle of the ring, bathed in the white light. They gasped as they watched him look up, seemingly right at them.

"Can he see us?" asked one of the girls, a fourth year named Pavarti, shivering as if she felt the man's gaze as a physical touch. The rest of the group seemed to feel the touch of his eyes as well, each squirming uncomfortably as if the assassin was watching them.

The assassin raised a hand to where his mouth would be and blew them a kiss before snapping his fingers, causing the lights to go out, disappearing into the blackness.

"I think he can," chorused Fred and George, staring out at the inky black darkness that now reigned supreme out on the grounds.

**September 2, 1994. 0700, Great Hall…**

Dumbledore walked into the Great Hall, half an hour before the students would begin to come down for breakfast, very much looking forward to his morning tea. He stopped dead when he saw the Assassins already there.

They had cleared the room, probably levitating the tables to the sides of the room to clear a space in the center. Steel clashed upon steel as four pairs of Assassins sparred back and forth across the room.

Dumbledore watched in silent appreciation at the display of skill before his eyes, watching the opponents attack with their blades, throwing in kicks, punches and everything in between as they attacked each other.

"Good morning, Headmaster," said Altaїr, his red streaked robes flapping slightly from his sudden movement, suddenly appearing by his side as one of the white-cloaked novices pulled a butterfly kick, sending her opponent into the wall at one side of the Hall. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows as he witnessed the power behind the kick. What surprised him more was the fact that the woman she fought rolled out of the impact on the floor and resumed the fight. "Are we living up to our promises?"

"Very much so, Mr. Altaїr," said Dumbledore, turning to the young man. "Should I ask what you are going to reveal to my students?"

The assassin pulled down the mask of his uniform and let himself smile as he said, "I will answer the students questions to the best of my ability, as long as it does not interfere with the third Tenet of the Creed: never compromise the Brotherhood."

"A good code to live by, Mr. Altaїr," said Dumbledore, watching one assassin plant a punch in another's stomach. This blow sent the novice reeling back accompanied by the sound of cracking ribs, clutching her stomach. "Is she alright?"

Altaїr turned to focus on the novice and whispered a quick phrase, too low for the Headmaster to hear it.

Immediately, the novice stood straight, her pain apparently gone, and resumed the attack. Dumbledore looked over in time for Altaїr to shout at the novice. "That's the only Heal rune you get for this fight, novice!"

"Yes, Master Altaїr!" the novice shouted back, trying to penetrate the Grand Assassin's guard. Her strikes, though very fast, had a predictable pattern, allowing the Grand to bat them away effortlessly.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with my morning tea," said Dumbledore, nodding to Altaїr as he took as step forward, preparing to walk around the combatants.

"Ke'sush!" shouted Altaїr, clapping his hands, startling the aged wizard.

Immediately, the fighting Assassins left their fights and stood in rows, forming a passage to the head table. They sheathed their blades and stood at attention, awaiting their next command.

Dumbledore looked back at Altaїr, a question forming on his lips.

"I'll tell you later, Headmaster Dumbledore," said Altaїr as he pulled his red streaked mask back over the bottom of his face.

Dumbledore nodded in acceptance before turning back to the head table, calmly walking through the two rows of Assassins.

As he sat himself at the head table and reached for the pot of his favorite tea blend the house elves knew he loved, the Assassins turned to face the Master Assassin, still at the end of the Hall. "Practice is over. Return to your posts. Novices, remain for the meal. Dismissed," said Altaїr.

The Assassins placed their left hands over their chests and Disapparated, leaving Altaїr with the novices.

Dumbledore was sure he was seeing things. _Perhaps I need a stronger pair of glasses_, he thought as he cleaned his half moon glasses. _I was sure they Disapparated. How can they do that?_

The remaining Assassins walked to the head table and replaced the four great tables in their original positions. After they were back in place, Altaїr raised a hand, palm down, fingers splayed wide.

The stone beneath their feet moved, the floor shifting into three chairs, one large one and two smaller ones, one on either side of the larger one.

The two smaller chairs were of simple construction, lacking any type of decoration.

The center chair was larger and ornate, looking more like a throne made of bones than anything else. A pair of skulls grinned from the armrests, their empty eye sockets glowing with a flickering red light.

Dumbledore came out from behind the head table and surveyed the assassin's throne. "Is it really necessary to make the students believe you are the Devil Incarnate?" he asked, noting the exemplary craftsmanship that went into the Transfiguration of the stones.

"Not really…" said Altaїr, sitting on the chair, looking very much like a blood streaked devil astride his throne formed from the bones of his enemies, the souls of two unfortunate victims glinting in their skulls.

"Very dramatic, Altaїr," said Dumbledore, rolling his eyes as he walked back to the head table. _I think I need a second cup of tea_, he thought as he walked back behind the table.

After twenty-odd minutes, other professors began to walk into the Hall,

Altaїr threw up a Disillusion charm around him and the two novices, hiding them from view until the time the questions were to begin. Their entrance would be the talk of the classes for a week.

Around seven-forty-five, the students began to trickle in, most still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

A group of fourth year Ravenclaws went to their table, discussing a homework assignment that they had received before the end of term. Ancient Runes, by the sounds of it. One held up a diagram of the rune array they were supposed to make. To the rest of the group, it looked perfect.

To the Assassins, who had been working with runes since they started their own training, it was a disaster with enough destructive force of equal to that of a pound of C4.

Altaїr sighed as he wrapped a second Disillusionment charm around himself and walked over to the Ravenclaw table, deftly avoiding other students as they slowly trickled into the room.

As he stopped behind the young woman who was holding the paper, he heard the words he had hoped no one would be stupid enough to utter: "Come on, Padma, put some magic into it."

Before the recently named Padma could respond, Altaїr dropped the charm and snatched the paper from her hands.

The Ravenclaw students screamed as one, their eyes widening in horror as the blood streaked assassin of the night before appeared directly behind one of their own.

Altaїr held up a hand and glared at them over his mask, putting a small amount of ambient magical energy into his gesture. The effect was instantaneous, quickly scaring the Ravenclaws into silence. The 'Claws quickly shut up, staring at the man who calmly placed a hand on the rune array, drawing a secondary array of runes at the bottom corner of the page.

"Who is your teacher?" he asked, looking over the rune array with an experienced eye, noting the small defects in the way the runes were drawn.

"P-P-Professor B-Babbling, S-S-S-Sir," stuttered a young woman of Asian heritage, staring at the assassin with a look of near horror. _Su Li, one of the runner ups to top student in her year_, thought the assassin, reading the info off his HUD.

Altaїr nodded absentmindedly, still looking at the paper. He turned around and approached the head table, making a beeline for the Ancient Runes Professor.

Said professor was currently enjoying a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast as he read an old issue of the Daily Prophet. He looked up to find the Master Assassin from the night before a mere foot away from him.

"Can I help you, Mr. Altaїr?" he asked, wondering why the Master Assassin had come up to him of all people.

"I have been told you teach Ancient Runes. Am I correct?" asked the assassin, tilting his head to the left slightly, waiting for the elderly professor's response.

"Yes…" trailed off Babbling, still confused.

"Please, take a look at this," the assassin said, casually tossing the paper he had appropriated to the professor.

With a hasty grab, the Rune Master stopped the page from falling into his food. A moment of silence was held as the professor looked over the paper. "A flawed Shield rune array, most commonly used for enchanting certain armors to add protection against spells. Your own work?"

Altaїr let out a quick bark of laughter, startling most of the students and professors. "Excuse me. No, it is not my work. One of your Ravenclaw students," he said, waving a hand to indicate the small group, now surrounded by the rest of the House. "Please explain what would happen if one were to run magic through such a flawed design."

"Well… the entire array would explode, of course, due to the improper drawing of the _kazdan _rune in the third quarter of the array and the _eklan_ rune at the end," said Babbling, casually pointing out the flaws. "Who is the idiot who suggested putting a magical current through this without having I or another teacher with a basis in Runes check this over?"

The idiot in question silently raised his hand, drawing an amazed look from Babbling. Babbling slowly shook his head as he frowned at the student, mentally noting to go over the _kazdan_ and_ eklan_ runes again once the boy was back in his class.

Altaїr turned back to the students and raised the paper in the air. "This is what happens when someone tries to put magic through a faulty rune array," he said, putting some magic into the Timed Magic Release rune set he had written in the corner. An instant later, he tossed the paper into the air and cupped his hands together, as if he was catching a ball.

Three seconds later, the piece of paper exploded in mid air, causing everyone present to flinch, excluding Dumbledore, who saw the magic invoked by Altaїr, and the two novices, still hidden under the Disillusionment charm, who had seen such a display before.

The explosion was contained by a sphere of colorless magic, keeping the resulting force from reaching the students and muffling the noise.

After the fire died due to lack of oxygen, the Master Assassin turned his head to look at the students, his masked and cloaked face unreadable… due to the mask…

"Any questions?"

Immediately, a bushy-haired Gryffidor raised her hand, nearly bouncing out of her seat at the prospect of learning about the Assassins. Various others from the other three Houses raised their hands as well, all curious about the new additions to the school.

Altaїr's HUD showed that Ms. Granger had spent the summer searching for any books, any scraps of information on the Assassins. She hadn't got anywhere close, though it was very funny to see her try.

"Very well, then. If you have a question, please get up and walk over here," said Altaїr, indicating a position a few meters away from his chair as he returned to the Disillusioned chair he had Transfigured from the stone floor of the Great Hall.

"Ms. Granger," he said, sitting down and leaning back on his chair, releasing the invisibility that hid the chair from view as he did so. Gasps broke the silence as the students gazed upon his throne, looks of horror and terror across their faces. "You may ask your questions now."

Silence reigned supreme for a moment as the students got used to the fact that he sat atop a throne that resembled the bones of many humans. Deputy Headmistress McGonnagall was looking rather impressed from his Transfiguration work, noting the fine detailing that went into his work.

Then Hermione Granger, the best student in her year, rose from her seat and walked up to stand where Altaїr had indicated. She took a few seconds to arrange her thoughts before asking her question.

"Why are there no stories about the Assassins?" asked Hermione, glaring at the assassin in his armchair/throne. "I've searched all the libraries I could over the summer and I can't find a single fact about the Assassins."

"There are no stories. There are myths, legends, fables, fairy tales, stories you would hear around a campfire or over drinks or whispered in the shadows by men whose sins are about to catch up to them. Our Order works because no one knows we exist outside the realm of the imaginary, much like you witches and wizards, though we are better," deadpanned Altaїr, not moving in his skeleton throne.

"Why don't you reveal yourselves to the wizarding world?" she asked, spreading her arms wide to gesture at the rest of the students. "Why stay secret?"

"We remain hidden from the eyes of the public because of the supernatural effect we have on our enemies. We are trained to be unseen as the Assassin's aim is to get close to their target stealthily, usually in public, to perform awe-inspiring assassinations. The greatest illusion from an assassination is for an Assassin to seemingly materialize from nowhere, kill a corrupt or evil person, and vanish into the depth of the crowd or environment. If an Assassin is spotted stalking their target, the supernatural effect is diluted, simply making it more difficult for the Assassin to reach his target. Be discreet: This is the Second Tenet of the Assassin's Creed."

Hermione was speechless for a moment, her brows knitting together as she processed this new information. She opened and closed her mouth a few times as she tried to formulate a new question before she looked at the assassin and asked, "May I ask other questions later?"

The Master Assassin nodded slowly, granting her request. She bowed her head quickly in respect before silently turning on her heel. She left the line for questions and returned to her seat, a look of barely contained glee on her face as she withdrew a sheet of parchement, a quill and an inkpot from her pocket. She began to write hurriedly, writing a trio of sentences within a second or two, determined to try for as much information as she could.

Altaїr beckoned the next in line: a young third year student by the name of Colin Creevey, known for his prowess with the ever present camera he held in his hands.

"Can I have a picture, Mr. Altaїr?" he asked timidly, holding up the camera with a hopeful look on his face.

Altaїr nodded and stood, beckoning the boy forward. Colin smiled, albeit nervously, and walked over to where the Master Assassin stood.

The assassin gently took the camera from Colin and made it levitate a few feet from him. Then he turned Colin around and put a hand on his shoulders, easily dwarfing the young thirteen year old, the assassin being six-foot-five and Colin being four-foot-eight.

"Smile," said Altaїr, squeezing the boy's shoulder in reassurance. Colin smiled wide as the camera flashed before spitting out the photograph. Altaїr reached out with his hand and used his magic to catch the picture before it hit the ground, bringing it back to his hand along with the camera.

When Colin took hold of both the camera and the photo, Altaїr kept a hold on the picture, calling Colin's attention back to him. "I would prefer," whispered Altaїr, leaning down to speak at eye level with the boy, "That you do not make copies of this, nor sell this to the papers."

Colin nodded quickly, slightly nervous at the assassin's direct attention. "Sir, yes, sir!" he said, standing straight and tall… as tall as he could, anyways. "I won't sell it for a million Galleons!"

The assassin nodded and took the picture and quickly passed a hand over it before handing it back to him.

Colin looked at the picture to find a small note written at the bottom corner of the magical picture. It read 'Safety and Peace, Master Assassin Altaїr Ibn-La'Ahad."

Colin performed a clumsy yet acceptable bow and returned to his seat, clutching the picture in his hand, a smile across his lips.

Altaїr returned to his seat and beckoned to the next student. Before the girl could step forward, a pair of brutes rudely shoved her to the side to let a blonde teen cut into the head of the line.

Altaїr directed a cold look at the trio, not enough to make them faint or run for their lives, though enough to make the two thugs back up a step. The boy took no notice as he smirked as he walked un hindered to stand in front of the assassin.

"I am Draco Malfoy," he boasted, looking at the white garbed assassin with a look of superiority.

"I know," said Altaїr, his voice taking on an icy tone as he spoke. "I know all the children of those who chose to serve as evil's arm."

Draco was taken aback by the assassin's reply, not expecting that particular answer.

"Do you have a question, Mr. Malfoy?" the masked assassin asked, tilting his head to the side, studying the son of a Death Eater.

"Are you a pureblood?" asked Malfoy, finally finding his voice.

"I am a half-blood, Mr. Malfoy," said the assassin, noting the look of superiority coming back. "Why do you ask?"

"Everyone knows pureblood wizards are more powerful," said Draco, smirking at the assassin as if he were the superior being. "Why would the Assassins want a half-blood?"

Altaїr chuckled at the idiocy the boy was spouting. "You believe you are more powerful as a result of your blood?"

"Yes, obviously," retorted Malfoy, assuming a smug stance with a mocking smirk on his face.

"Shall we test your theory?" Altaїr asked as he stood and reached towards his belt.

Malfoy and everyone else standing in line back up a few steps in a hurry. Malfoy paled, his face turning a pasty white, thinking he was about to die.

Altaїr withdrew a sphere from his belt, semi-transparent, red in color and an inch wide, a stylized capital 'A' in the center. "This is what we call a dral stone, a power test stone," he explained, noting the panicked looks on everyone, though he cared little for the blonde before him. "If you were to place this stone near your heart, it will glow. The brighter the glow, the more power you have."

He offered the stone to the boy, a challenge in the air. "Do you wish to compare power levels?"

Draco recovered quickly as he realized that the sphere was not a weapon and arrogantly took a step forward, reaching for the stone.

Altaїr dropped the stone in his hand and watched as the Malfoy heir placed the stone on his chest, above his heart. A bright glow emanated from the stone, causing a few people to cover their eyes.

"Interesting," said the assassin, calmly taking back the dral stone. He turned and walked back to his seat, calmly rolling the marble around in his palm.

"What? To scared to show your meager magical power before your better?" mocked Draco, clearly thinking he had scared the assassin into retreating.

The temperature dropped ten degrees as Altaїr stopped in mid step, not believing that there was a person whose arrogance knew no limits. He turned around slowly, coldly staring at the boy.

"You wish to see my power?" he asked, holding the marble between his fingers.

"Why not? It will be fun to see how weak a half-blood is."

Altaїr sighed as he placed the stone over his heart.

The entire Great Hall was filled with light, blinding the students and teachers with its intensity. Only the novices and Dumbledore did not throw an arm in front of their eyes, their eyewear automatically filtering out the excess light. A second later, the stone shattered, ending the light show.

Altaїr sighed as he glanced at the marble, broken in ragged halves. He looked at the novices, holding the stone for them to see. "This is why I don't use these anymore."

It took a moment for the majority of the students to regain their sight, blinking away the spots the light left in their eyesight.

When they finally could see clearly, Draco and his gorillas beat a hasty retreat, heading for the Slytherin table at breakneck speed.

"Ms. Patil," said Altaїr in a soft tone, startling the young woman who had been watching the Slytherin making his hasty exit. She blushed as he appeared to stare at her, his masked face unreadable.

"I believe you were next in line to ask a question, were you not?" asked Altaїr, beckoning her forward.

She smiled nervously and stepped forward, wringing her hands. "Um… we saw you practicing last night and I wanted to ask… do you have wings?"

Altaїr laughed as he stood, spread his arms and slowly turned in a circle. "Does it look like I have wings, Ms. Patil?" he asked, completing his revolution.

"No… it's just that your tattoos were so beautiful and they looked _real_," said Pavarti, blushing as she realized how stupid her question probably sounded to the Master Assassin.

"I am as human as you are, _bella_," said Altaїr, affecting an Italian accent as he leaned back on one leg.

"Thank you, Mr. Altaїr," said Pavarti, blushing as she inclined her head in thanks, realizing what he had said in Italian. She was surprised, however, when Altaїr stepped forward, took her hand in his and delivered a kiss through the cloth of his mask upon the back of her hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Patil."

Pavarti, to say the least, was stunned, blushing like mad before the entire school populace. She quickly spun around and ran back to her group of friends, all of whom started giggling as she sat at began to talk rapidly.

Altaїr returned to his seat, nodding to the next person in line.

The Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, Roger Davies, stepped forward. He bowed his head to the assassin before asking his question. "What do you Assassins do in your spare time?"

The seated assassin leaned to one side of the throne, supporting his head by one hand. "We train constantly, so we rarely have free time, Mr. Davies. I assume what you meant was whether or not we play Quidditch."

"Well… yes," said Davies, shifting uncomfortably as his intentions were easily interpreted by the Master Assassin.

"We do, in fact, play Quidditch. I believe one of the Masters here is an avid player, always playing whenever he can."

"Ah… perhaps I can invite you and your team of Assassins to play a match?" asked Davies, a playful challenge in his voice.

"Perhaps we will, Mr. Davies. I will discuss this with my team and send you an owl if we agree to a game," said Altaїr, adding a note to his HUD to talk to Talal about a Quidditch match in the near future. He couldn't have his team become lazy on this assignment.

Davies nodded, turned away and joined the rest of his team at the Ravenclaw table.

Altaїr glanced at the bottom corner of his HUD and noted that is was twenty minutes to nine, which left the students less than twenty minutes to get to their classes or risk being late.

"I believe it is time to end the question asking," said Altaїr, drawing the attention of the students. He pointed to the staff table, which was empty of all but the Headmaster, who was calmly sipping his tea. "If you are late to your first class, you will not be making a good impression on your teachers. Now, get to class!"

The students gathered their things and ran for the door, certain students hoping they would make it to their potions class on time or else risk detention with the Potions Master, Severus Snape.

Altaїr sighed as the hall emptied, leaving him, the novices and Dumbledore in the Hall.

"So, how did it go?" he asked, turning to the aged professor.

"Bravo, Mr. Altaїr. Bravo," said Dumbledore, clapping his hands slowly.

"Novices, grab some food from the kitchens and then go to Master Talal for assignment," said the assassin, Transfiguring his throne back into normal stone.

"Yes, Master Altaїr," the novices said before walking out of the Hall, heading for the second floor, Talal's current position.

A wave of the assassin's hand had the chairs returning to their natural state. He Disapparated, leaving the Headmaster reaching for another cup of tea.

**Yeah, kind of a filler chap…**

**Probably one more after this and then we get into the action of the Quad-Wizard Tournament!**

**Also, Altaїr**/**Harry will not be as stoic as originally intended. I'm going to try and have him act more like Ezio than Altaїr, always flirting with the girls.**

**In a review, vote yea or nay for this change.**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	9. Altaїr and Friends

**September 25, 1994. 1630, Second Floor Corridor…**

The two Assassins on duty outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom exchanged looks as the bells chimed for the final time of the day, signifying the end of the last class of the day. The corridor was about to be filled with students and Master Altaїr had not yet reemerged from the Chamber.

"This could get messy," said one in a singsong voice, a smile clearly on her face beneath the golden streaked mask.

"Very true," replied the other, his eyes twinkling beneath his green streaked hood. "Hopefully we'll be able to see their faces when he gets back up."

As the pair fell silent, students began to pour into their corridor from around the corners at either end of the hall. They nearly fell over themselves as they saw a pair of Assassins standing alongside one another in the middle of the hall, just outside an out of order bathroom.

One red head by the name of Ronald Weasley decided to ask them about it as he passed on his way to the staircases. "Why are you two here? Isn't there something more important to stand around by then a haunted bathroom?"

The Assassins merely tilted their heads towards the entrance way of the restroom, from which was emanating a faint booming sound, steadily growing louder and was soon felt through the very stone the students and Assassins stood on.

"Oh, that nice Mr. Altaїr is coming," said a dirty blonde, her wand residing behind her left ear. Everyone looked at her in confusion, including the two Assassins, wondering how she had connected the recurring sound with the Master Assassin. Others began to question her sanity as she called an Assassin, a man whose job entailed killing people, 'nice.'

The two Assassins pulled open the doors, revealing a yawing hole in the middle of the floor surrounded by several sinks. All the students looked at each other, excluding Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood, wondering what the significance of the tunnel entrance was.

Everyone recoiled in fright as a hand in a fingerless glove reached over the edge of the hole, searching around for a handhold. Finding one, it gripped the small crack in the stone floor and pulled its owner over the edge.

Altaїr's red streaked visage appeared, one arm out behind him, as if he was pulling something. He stood as soon as most of him was out of the hole and calmly walked out of the bathroom.

More screams were heard as the head of a hundred foot long basilisk appeared with its jaw firmly clenched in the Master Assassin's fist.

The two Assassins followed on either side of the meter wide snake, chuckling behind their masks at the horror on the student's faces.

**Courtyard…**

After the classes at Hogwarts were finished for the day, Albus Dumbledore always enjoyed a relaxing walk through the grounds, smiling as the birds chirped, the giant squid made ripples in the lake, and the students chattering amongst themselves.

However, he was not expecting to see a dead hundred foot basilisk in the middle of the courtyard, currently being pulled by the Master Assassin.

The aged headmaster sighed as he began a beeline for the red and white Assassin, hoping this didn't have him going to the infirmary for more potions for relief of headache pain.

"Master Altaїr, what brings you out here on this fine day?" asked Dumbledore, glancing pointedly at the snake held firmly in the Assassin's hand.

"The Laws of Conquest according to the Code of the Order of Witches and Wizards, set down by the wizard Merlin and the Witch Morgan le Fay, any creature killed by a witch or wizard is then considered that witch or wizard's property," said the Assassin, his tone deadpan as he invoked an ancient law that had been set down in enchanted stone some several hundred years ago.

Dumbledore was struck speechless as he heard that the dead serpent before him was killed by the Assassin. He blinked a few times as he pondered the newest developments, finally deciding to ask how the creature died.

"Assuming what you say is true and you did slay this beast, how did you kill it?" asked Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as stared at the Master Assassin.

Altaїr glared at the man as he felt the weak Legilimency barb the Headmaster threw against his mental shields. A quick pulse of power directed into his barriers had Dumbledore mentally reeling.

"You doubt my word, Albus Dumbledore? I killed this beast two years ago, back during the second opening of the Chamber of Secrets. You remember the time, do you not?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, realizing what had been preying on his students for the entirety of the semester. He immediately bowed to the Assassin in thanks, thanking him for removing the threat before someone had died.

"No thanks are necessary. I needed a second excursion to Hogwarts and it was the easiest way," said Altaїr, waving off the thanks as if killing monstrous beasts was just part of his job.

_Knowing what little I do, he probably does… and what does he mean 'second excursion to Hogwarts'?_ thought Dumbledore, beginning to feel a headache coming on. "Why have you brought the beast's carcass out here, Master Altaїr?"

Altaїr pointed towards the gates of Hogwarts. Dumbledore followed his directions and looked over to see a goblin in a shrunken Muggle suit enter through the gates, a briefcase in hand.

"Master Altaїr! May your gold always flow," said the goblin, spreading his arms wide and bowing at the waist. He straightened to show a wide toothy grin.

"And may your enemies be strong enough to keep you on your toes," replied Altaїr, bowing to the goblin in the traditional Assassin way. As he straightened from his bow, he pulled down the mask across his face and allowed a smile to curl his lips. "It is good to see you, Griphook, old friend."

Altaїr walked over and dropped to one knee before Griphook and extended his right arm. Griphook extended his own arm and grabbed Altaїr's in a warrior's handshake: their hands clasping the others forearm. This was both an Assassin and Goblin tradition, showing that the ally had enough strength to haul someone aboard an escape vessel and it also revealing if the ally wore any potentially lethal weapons on their forearms, such as the hidden blades of the Assassins and the hold-out daggers favored by many a goblin.

They nodded to each other, greeting each other as two warriors of great deeds, even though most were deemed 'black-ops' to the rest of the world.

Griphook smiled as he released the Assassin's arm and walked slowly around the basilisk, appraising its current value as quickly as he could. "When the famous Altaїr calls me and says he has a situation that would be mutually beneficial in monetary terms, I tend to hurry."

"And how is Altaїr famous, Master Griphook?" asked Dumbledore, hoping to get some insight on the Assassin's movements.

Both Assassin and goblin stopped moving and stared at the aged wizard before going back to their walking.

Altaїr waited patiently, pacing absentmindedly with his hands clasped behind his back, as Griphook calmly continued his assessment of the dead snake. He allowed his smile to widen as the goblin began to show a similar grin, widening as the seconds ticked by.

"Your assessment, Master Griphook?" asked Altaїr as the goblin finished his circuit, nearly skipping with joy.

"I would be honored to handle the contract, Master Altaїr," said Griphook, affecting a calm persona, thought Altaїr could see the galleons glinting in the goblin's eyes.

"Excellent."

"Is the traditional ten percent… acceptable?" asked Griphook, rubbing his hands together as he imagined his commission alone.

"Twenty-five," said the Assassin, his smile never wavering as the goblin's jaw dropped.

"_Twenty-five_ percent, Altaїr?" asked Griphook, his voice hoarse as the realization set in.

"Well, you have served as the Assassin's Treasurer for a number of years and I believed it was time you had some appreciation sent your way. Don't you think so?"

Griphook nodded slowly, mentally dancing a jig, as he picked his jaw off the ground. _He knows how much I want that promotion. I thought it might take me a year to get such a large contract and then he shows up with a dead basilisk and offers me twenty-five percent! How does he always know?_

"I-I…uh, will start the correct procedures as soon as possible."

"Excellent, Griphook. Thank you for your time. May your gold always flow," said Altaїr as he turned on his heel and waved to the other Assassins, ordering them back into the castle.

As Altaїr turned back to Griphook, the goblin bowed deeply and intoned his finishing lines. "And may your enemies be strong enough to keep you on your toes. Thank you, Altaїr."

With that, Griphook placed a hand on the basilisk corpse and disappeared, returning to Gringotts to begin the preparations of dissecting and selling the hundred foot basilisk.

Altaїr turned around and found himself face to face with the female assassin with golden streaks on her armor. "Hello, Alyssandra," he said in greeting, smiling as he spread his arms to bestow a hug on one his close friends.

"Master Altaїr," said Alyssandra, returning the hug. "Might I ask a favor?"

The crowd that had formed while the dead basilisk was on display started to thin as students began to walk away, little groups ranging from two to five breaking off to head for their common rooms or other favored places such as the library and certain broom closets on a number of floors.

Noting that there were still witnesses around, he placed a hand on Alyssandra's shoulder and jumped them to an empty corridor on the fourth floor.

"Is it that time already?" asked the red streaked Assassin, his head tilted in silent questioning. "Surely you haven't used up your supply already."

"I regret to say the temptation was too much for me, Master Altaїr," said the female Assassin, bowing her head as if ashamed.

"Very well," said Altaїr as he pulled his hood to the side, baring his neck to the woman.

"Thank you, Altaїr," said Alyssandra as she pulled down her mask, leaned in and appeared to breathe deep, her nose at the joining point of the Master Assassin's neck and shoulder. Altaїr smirked as she moaned softly, knowing what was to come next.

She bared her teeth, showing elongated fangs before biting down on Altaїr's jugular, easily puncturing the skin. A single drop of blood escaped between the lips of Alyssandra and Altaїr's neck, leaving a crimson trail that quickly disappeared beneath his collar.

Altaїr sighed as he felt the familiar tugging sensation

After a moment, the vampire removed her teeth from the man's neck and gave the two wounds a quick lick, sealing the twin puncture wounds.

"_Thank you_, Altaїr," said Alyssandra, her voice husky and a blush upon her cheeks.

Altaїr smiled as he recognized that look. _She always gets that look about her when she drinks my blood_, he thought as he pondered his effect on her. "Not a problem, Alyssandra. I shall send Yoda with supplies to refill your reserves."

Alyssandra nodded and pulled her mask back up as she turned and walked away, a seductive sway to her hips, making Altaїr reminisce Farah's alter ego, Dancer.

_That woman is going to be the death of me_, thought Altaїr as he pulled his hood back into its proper position.

He turned around and began walking towards the staircases, though he stopped as soon as an angry outburst rent the silence. He turned to find the

"What the hell?" shouted Ron, glaring up at the Assassin, disgust plain on his face. "Why would you let a filthy bloodsucker latch on to you like that?"

Altaїr walked over, grabbed a fistful of robes, lifted him to eyelevel and glared at the boy, his anger clearly on his face despite the mask the covered it. "That 'bloodsucker,' as you call her, has saved my life three times and I would prefer that you not speak of her like that."

"Vampires are evil!" shouted Ron, disgust still on his face despite being held about a foot above the floor. "They should be exterminated!"

"Many have thought along the same lines as you. If their ideals target members of the Assassins, they do not live long enough to put their plans into action. All vampires are not evil, just as all so called 'pure-bloods' are not simple minded fools. I would advise you not to attempt to follow such a path, for there are those of us who would fight to the death and beyond for their friends," said Altaїr, his voice icy. Ron could swear his breath was coming out in a plume a vapor when he breathed, the room temperature seemingly dropping several degrees.

Altaїr opened his clenched fist and let the boy fall to the floor in a heap before disappearing, Disapparating to the Great Hall, hoping to catch Talal before he sat down to an early dinner.

**Great Hall…**

As Altaїr appeared in the Great Hall, the three Assassins sitting at the Slytherin table immediately snapped to their feet and placed their left hands over their chests. Some students laughed before noting that the Master Assassin himself was directly behind them. That quickly had them shutting up.

"Safety and peace, Master," chorused the three Assassins, returning to their seats as Altaїr sat among them, nodding in greeting as he pulled a plate towards him. "How are you, Talal, Jacinta, Padraig?"

"Brilliant, sir," said Padraig, his Irish accent in full effect, his only true accent as a native of the Island. He smiled beneath his hood, green streaked with a green shamrock near the collar, knowing how much he annoyed the younger man when he rapidly changed accents on the fly. Altaїr rolled his eyes at the poison expert of his team, knowing that the man could speak without the accent.

Padraig smiled, going from Irish to Russian, as he indicated the two meters on either side of them with outstretched arms. "The school children are very wary of us, comrade. Perhaps, if we brought up the mission in Sicily, they would not fear you that much."

"Leave him alone, Padraig," chimed in Jacinta, her ice-blue marked hood swiveling to glare at the burly twenty-nine year old Irishman. The twenty-nine year old Japanese woman smirked beneath her hood. "I don't see him reminding you of the mission in Brazil, do you?"

Talal and Altaїr both groaned as Padraig seemed to swell in indignation. _Here he goes again_, thought the two of the Assassin, bracing their heads on their fists, already knowing a headache was coming on.

"It was not my fault!" shouted Padraig, slipping back into his Irish accent, glaring at the tiny woman sitting across from him. It was quite fun to see, a nearly seven foot tall Irishman versus a five foot four Japanese woman

"It wasn't your fault that you and Alyssandra missed a signal to attack and ended up appearing after the battle was over?" asked Jacinta, an innocent look on her face.

Altaїr and Talal shared a chuckle as they remembered the mission: They had fought through the jungle terrain to a secret Templar base they had learned the location of by interrogating an ex-Templar. The battle was relatively quick at first, Talal, Jacinta, and Altaїr charging the main gates as Alyssandra and Padraig used a less conspicuous back door. They were to wait until the other three sent a signal through a rune to alert them that they might be in trouble.

The signal was launched but the pair didn't show up.

Amidst much cursing and bloodshed, Altaїr composed the ass kicking he was going to give the pair... after he survived the engagement.

As the last Templar fell and the trio of Assassins searched for survivors, Alyssandra and Padraig burst into the room, swords drawn and screaming war cries. They stopped dead as they saw the courtyard littered with dead bodies, bullet casings and three bloodstained Assassins, all of whom were winding down from the effects of adrenaline.

The sight was nearly enough to make the three forget about beating them up as they doubled over laughing.

The memory brought a smile to Altaїr's lips as he reached for a platter of steaks that magically appeared before him. _Remind me to thank the house-elves the next time I'm down in the kitchens…_

"We were busy fighting off six Templars!"

"Six?" asked Altaїr, pausing in the cutting of his newly acquired steak. "Last time I heard this story, it was four."

"I heard three the last time, Padraig," chimed in Talal. Altaїr shot a glance at Talal, an eyebrow raised in questioning. Talal shrugged and continued. "Sure you were fighting off six Templars?"

Padraig seemed at a loss for words when Jacinta coughed quietly, drawing attention back to her. "The truth of the matter is that Grand Assassin Padraig and Master Assassin Alyssandra were getting to know one another Biblically during that time period."

Altaїr dropped his fork as Talal's elbow slipped off the table and smashed his head onto the hardwood with a loud _thunk_. Both turned to glare at the now sheepish looking Irish Assassin, their eyes promising a beat down as soon as possible.

"Let me get this straight: we were left to fight nearly a hundred Templars armed with _M16A4's_, _AK-47's_ and _grenades_ because you and Alyssandra were having a _quickie_?" asked Altaїr, his voice very calm, icy almost.

The green streaked Assassin Disapparated, leaving Talal grasping at empty air where Padraig's throat had been a second before.

Jacinta began to laugh, the sight of Talal cursing and creating ways to hurt Padraig becoming too much for her to hold in.

Altaїr sighed as he resumed eating, knowing that Padraig had to sleep sometime. "Talal, leave it alone."

"I will most certainly not leave this alone! I caught half a dozen bullets during that fight!" shouted Talal, drawing the attention of the students and teachers, mildly surprised at his outburst.

"Another time, brother, when not so many people are watching," said Altaїr, placing a hand on Talal's shoulder and dragged him back down to be seated.

"Fine… but I get dibs on the first hit."

"Deal," said Altaїr, eating a slice of his steak.

The trio of Assassins ate in silence as the Great Hall began to fill with other students, teachers, and other Assassins, all coming for their evening meals or just to chat with friends. Altaїr greeted each as they sat down and listened to their reports, noting interesting facts on his HUD. Facts like the current passwords for the different dormitories and the Headmaster's office.

"Is it true?" asked the voice of Hermione Granger, standing behind Altaїr with her arms crossed. "Is it true that you have a vampire on your team of assassins?"

Altaїr quickly spun around, startling the young witch with his speed. "Salaam and good evening, good friend. How might I be of service?" he asked, conjuring a rose out of the air and placing it behind her ear before she could react.

"I was wondering if the rumors were true or not."

"Which rumor would that be, Ms. Granger? I have heard several good ones during my stay," said Altaїr, leaning back on the table. "I particularly enjoyed the rumor that we make oaths with demons to get our powers and in turn must sacrifice the Muggleborn on altars of bone during the full moon."

"The rumor that one of your Assassins is a vampire!" shouted Hermione, growing tired of the Assassin's evasiveness. _Damn him for being so annoying!_

"Ah, that one…" said Altaїr, grinning as he turned his head to address Alyssandra, sitting a few seats down the table. "Alyssandra!"

"Aye, sir?" said Alyssandra, standing to see the reclined Assassin. "What do you wish of me?"

"Care to put this rumor to rest?"

"Certainly, Master Altaїr." Alyssandra stood and walked over to Hermione, pulling her own mask down as she approached.

As she stood in front of the smartest witch of her age, Alyssandra smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. As Hermione leaned in for a closer look, Alyssandra's canines elongated, giving her the fangs that were the trademark of all vampires.

"I am what we vampires call a dhampir, a half-vampire. I have all the strengths of a vampire, none of the weaknesses. Unfortunately, I still must drink blood as nourishment."

Altaїr took this moment to stand up and place a hand on her shoulder. "She is Alyssandra Moonshine, leader of the Vampire Assassins of the Shadow Keep. Pray that you never meet her on the battlefield."

On that note, Alyssandra turned away and returned to her seat. Catching a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, Altaїr turned to find Dumbledore approaching from the head table at a pace quite impressive for one of his age.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Altaїr said, bowing his head slightly as he greeted the elderly wizard.

"I must insist that Ms. Moonshine leave the grounds. It is unsafe for the students for her to remain," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

"You have no right to insist anything, least of all ordering me or any of my Assassins around," said Altaїr, waving the aged man away as he returned to his meal. "Master Alyssandra will remain on Hogwarts property as long as I do. The same applies to the rest of my team. Any of us go, we all go."

Each and every one of the Assassins turned to glare at the Headmaster, silently daring him to try and call their 'bluff.' After no response from the man, they turned back to their food, the headmaster apparently forgotten.

"Will the vampire kill any students in bloodlust?" whispered Dumbledore, glancing back and forth between the gold and red Assassins.

"'The vampire' has a name," intoned Alyssandra, not even looking away from her goblet of blood as Dumbledore flinched, forgetting the well known fact that vampires have enhanced senses. "And I am in perfect control of my 'bloodlust,' as you call it."

"That will be all, Dumbledore," said Altaїr, waving a hand at the elderly wizard, clearly ending the conversation and dismissing him.

Dumbledore stood there for a moment, the abrupt dismissal wounding his pride. He turned and walked away, reaching for one of his sherbet lemons.

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	10. Mysteries and Physicals

**I've become quite depressed… a story I haven't worked on for about a year is getting more views per month than my Dragon Age Origins story.**

**Please tell me what you think if you get the chance.**

**October 15, 1994...**

"Coming through!"

As one, the students in the halls turned to look towards the source of the yell. Their eyes widened as they saw four Assassins running down the hall. They all crowded the walls of the corridor as the Assassins displayed no signs of stopping.

Altaїr was in front, leading the two white cloaked novices and the grey streaked Talal. A grin was on his face as he ran full tilt down the hall, despite the fact that the corridor ended in another ten meters.

"Uh... Master Altaїr?" asked one of the novices, her voice breathless from running and slightly apprehensive as they drew closer to the windows at the end of the hall.

"A leap of faith, then we can go for dinner," said Altaїr, increasing his speed to propel himself further.

Students out on the grounds looked up in alarm as the sound of shattering glass filled the air. Their gasps were quickly replaced by screams as they witnessed the Assassins plummet from the seventh floor. A fall from that height would kill almost anyone.

Altaїr landed on on knee, his hand bracing himself as he used his magic to quickly remove the momentum he had accumulated during the fall. He landed with a small thump, much like what one would hear if they dropped a small book onto a table from two inches away.

Talal landed with the same grace, though the novices were not as silent. Their landings still needed a bit of work, though they were good enough for their rank.

Altaїr, Talal, and the two novices stood, looking up to find about fifty-odd students staring at them, mouths hanging open in astonishment.

"What?" asked Altaїr, looking back at his companions.

**Great Hall...**

Alyssandra, Padraig, Jacinta, Talal and Altaїr were sitting at the Gryffindor table, enjoying their evening meal, each chuckling as they saw the two novices falling asleep where they sat.

"Did we ever look that bad after two hours of free-running?" asked Padraig, assuming a thick French accent as he smiled at the two novices.

"You did," said Alyssandra, nudging her lover with her elbow, a smile on her face as he turned with an annoyed expression on his face. All the other Assassins groaned as he opened his mouth.

"Here we go again," muttered Altaїr, rolling his eyes as he ate, already tuning out the Irish Assassin.

"I was sixteen!" shouted Padraig, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. "I was barely an Apprentice Assassin!"

"Silence, love," said Alyssandra, placing a finger on his lips, effectively silencing him. She smiled as he focused on her, glaring at her. "You are drawing attention to us."

"I'm sorry," said Padraig, speaking around Alyssandra's finger, a smile forming in his eyes and on his lips. Alyssandra smiled back as she removed her finger from his lips, grasped the leather straps holding his short blade on his back and pulled him into a passionate kiss.

Altaїr sighed in exasperation as the other Assassins assembled around the table let out catcalls and semi-lewd comments. _They've been doing this for a few years now… you would think they would stop being idiots._

"Get a room," growled another Assassin as he sat down next to Altaїr, his scarred lips twisted into a half grin. His robes had waving designs in black across his chest, right sleeve and hood, as well as a few lines in Russian across his back. "You two can never keep your hands off each other."

"Safety and peace, Piotr," said Talal, nodding at the giant, heavily scarred Russian Assassin over a forkful of potatoes. "How was patrol in the forest?"

Piotr seemed to glower as he tapped a rune on his bracer, causing it to glow for a few seconds as he unsealed an object from it. He handed it to Talal, who looked at with a raised eyebrow. "How do you think it was?"

Talal twirled the arrow between his fingers, whistling while he recognized the fletching as he spun it like a baton. Centaur fletching always was recognizable as they used horse hair to bind the feathers to the arrow shaft. "Run afoul with the locals, did we?"

"I merely ran through their camp as I was patrolling," said Piotr, raising a goblet to his nose, breathing in the familiar scent of vodka. "Some people have no sense of humor."

"I can tell," Altaїr remarked as he placed his fork on the table without a sound and folded his fingers, watching an approaching figure over top his hands. _So… the young Mr. Weasley comes forward once again…_ "Alyssandra."

"Yes, Altaїr?" said Alyssandra, turning to look at the Master Assassin, breaking off the kiss. Padraig glared at him over her shoulder, a scowl on his lips.

"I believe you have a visitor," he said, jerking his head at the approaching member of the Weasley clan.

Alyssandra nodded, not even looking in his direction as she saw him through her HUD, the live feed from Altaїr giving her the image of her guest.

"Ms. Moonshine?" asked Ron uneasily, standing uneasily behind the dhampir. "Might I have a word?"

As one, the entire bench of Assassins, all of whom had their back to the boy, turned to look at the red head. He took a quick step back, a little scared of being the sudden center of attention, especially in front men and women who were called Assassins.

"What do you wish of me, Ronald Weasley?" asked Alyssandra in her melodic voice.

Ron swallowed nervously before bowing at the waist, surprising most of the Assassins with his actions.

"I wish to apologize," he said, his voice low. "I insulted you and your kind, judging you before I got the chance to know you. Master Altaїr made realize the error of my ways."

Alyssandra looked over her shoulder at the Master Assassin, raising a delicate brow in question. Altaїr merely pointed back to the Weasley, who had started to straighten from his bow.

"I am sorry I insulted you," said Ron, his head still bowed, finding the floor an interesting place to contemplate. He was surprised, however, when a pale hand appeared in his vision and slowly raised his head, making him look directly into the shadows that hid the eyes of the Assassin Vampiress.

"Apology accepted, Ronald Weasley," said the vampire, a smile clearly heard in her voice.

"Thank you, Lady Moonshine," he said, bowing his head once again in respect. When he looked back up, he noticed the other Assassins nodding in approval, most of them surprised he had the guts to talk to a 'scary Dark creature,' as vampires were sometimes called.

As Ron walked off to sit with his friends, Alyssandra turned back to her meal, slowly tilting the goblet of blood in a circle as she stared at the Master Assassin sitting across from her. "You defended my name?"

Altaїr rolled his eyes at the question. "What type of brother would I be if I let everyone slander my sister's name without giving a warning?"

"A poor one, Master Altaїr," said another Assassin, sitting next to Piotr, leaning back on her elbows, tilting her head back to look at Altaїr from the other side of the giant Russian.

"Safety and peace, Catherine," said Altaїr, ducking his head as he suddenly remembered a very important fact: he was due for his annual physical from the head doctor of the Assassin Order, one Warrior Assassin by the name of Catherine Valance.

"I assume you know why I'm here, Master Altaїr?"

"I do indeed, Catherine," he said, an idea forming in his head._ I'm going to get ragged on for this one, I just know it_, he thought as he looked over at the doctor. "Your place or mine?"

Catherine smiled and laughed sweetly as she stood and skipped along, grabbing Altaїr's sleeve as she passed, dragging the Assassin from the table as she went. "So naughty, Master Altaїr!"

All of the Assassins at the table shook their heads, rubbed their temples or face palmed as the two Assassins disappeared from the Great Hall. It was rare to see a Master Assassin be manhandled like that, especially Altaїr, though it was a well known fact that he had a soft spot for most of his female friends within the Assassin Order.

A fact that was mentioned high, loud and repeatedly when the women compared their current companions to the 'perfect gentleman' that was Altaїr.

"So… who's going to come out of this encounter with fewer clothes, him or her?" asked Padraig, earning a slap upside the head from Alyssandra as the other Assassins placed their bets. Piotr smiled as he took a long drink of his vodka, knowing his friend was in for a wild night.

"Forty ounces on Catherine."

_Being one of the boy's teacher gives me great insight into his future_, he thought as his bet was matched by several naïve Assassins. He grinned, two words in his head:_ Too easy…_

**Masyaf Fortress, Infirmary… **

"I see you chose your place," remarked Altaїr, sitting on the bed in the infirmary. It was almost like the hospital wing at Hogwarts, though the infirmary in Masyaf Fortress was much more spacious and had more beds. Fortunately for the pair, there were no Assassins in the infirmary.

Altaїr mentally applauded her decision to come to the infirmary rather than his bedroom/workshop. His work on his staff-sword was progressing slowly, making the room a veritable mess as scrap metal, wooden blocks, and ink-spattered paper covered the floor.

He smiled at the woman standing before him, leaning on one hip with a smile on her lips and lust in her eyes. "Shall we get to it?"

"Oh, yes, we shall," said Catherine, leaning in very close as she started unbuckling the straps holding Altaїr's long knife on his back, her breath hot on his ear. A mewl of pleasure escaped her lips as he pushed back her hood and planted a kiss on her neck, his teeth delicately touching the sensitive skin.

The sound of leather hitting the ground was interspaced with the sound of steel on stone as Catherine undid the straps of his hidden blades and bracers, removing them from his person.

He smiled as she struggled with the ties of his over robe, having already removed her hidden blades, bracers, short blade and her own over robe. All that separated Altaїr from her skin was her shirt, pants, and boots. "You're moving more quickly than usual, my dear Catherine. The last time we were in this situation, I was down to your inner robes by the time you got to my hidden blades."

"Shut up and kiss me," said Catherine, finally loosing the knots that held his Master robe to his body. An instant later, his robe joined the rest of his clothing on the floor, the fabric forming a pool of white cloth.

She sighed in pleasure as one of his hands caressed her back beneath the loose martial-art shirts Assassins wore, his fingers finding all the right spots to relieve all the tension in her lower back.

His other hand undid the ties at her hip, letting the shirt fall open to display a toned stomach and a pair of breasts clad in white silk. Altaїr smiled at Catherine as she straddled him, trying in vain to undo his shirt lacings. "Very nice…"

The sound of cloth ripping filled the air as Catherine tore the under robe in half as she was unable to undo the laces. Altaїr rolled his eyes as his wardrobe was lessened by a single shirt. _Maybe I shouldn't use those knots Master Raphael taught me when I meet with Catherine_, he thought as he bestowed soft butterfly-like kisses to her chest, tracing her sternum with his lips.

After a few more kisses, Catherine removed herself from Altaїr's lap and walked around the bed, trailing a hand over the hard planes of Altaїr's muscles, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Would you remove these tattoos?" asked Catherine as she traced the artwork Altaїr had used to cover his rune array.

Most Assassins didn't bother to hide their rune tattoos, as they looked enough like tribal tattoos in the first place, though Altaїr enjoyed being different, using tattoos to hide the runes.

Also, chicks dig the wings…

"Certainly," said Altaїr, bowing his head for a moment in concentration. Since his tattoos were as magical as his rune system, he was able to shift the tattoos around on his skin as well as change the size of them at will.

Catherine gasped as she watched the wings disappear to reveal bare flesh, no trace remaining of the Assassin runes that had covered Altaїr's back from shoulder to shoulder. "What happened to your runes?"

Confused, Altaїr craned his neck to look at his back over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow as he failed to find the bold black lines that made up his runes. "I don't know…"

"Did you sustain any injuries to your back recently?" asked Catherine, tracing Altaїr's spine with one finger, mentally reviewing all the runes he had received from the Masters as he progressed through his trainings.

"None. I haven't been injured on a mission or in training in a long time, especially not to such an extent," said Altaїr, bowing his head again in concentration.

Catherine activated her Eagle Vision, eager to watch Altaїr's manipulation of his magic. All wizards glowed under the Eagle Vision, making it easier to differentiate between non-magics. For skilled fighters and duelists, it gave them an edge as the heightened vision allowed them to watch the manipulation of one's own magic and that of their enemy.

For almost all Assassins, their magic is contained within their torso, circulating in one direction for males and the opposite for females. Whenever they used their magic, they were required to direct their energy down their arms or legs.

The rare few, such as Masters Muyassar, Alyssandra, Raphael and Altaїr, were different in their energy flow. Their energy constantly circulated their entire body, allowing them to cast spells with greater ease and speed than 'normal' wizards and witches could as their magic was already in their limbs to start with.

Many referred to those select few as 'oceaners' or 'inner stormers,' seeing as their magic greatly resembled a ocean in a storm, their inner magics flowing randomly in all directions in no discernable pattern.

Amongst the Assassins, only the four had the circulation, even among the other branches of Assassins.

It was rare to be able to watch such a person in a controlled environment as the few who had the predisposition. This was one of the reasons Catherine took an interest in Altaїr right from the start, noting that his magic was different from the other Assassins as soon as he arrived at Masyaf as a one year-old. She had become his personal doctor as he began his training in the Order, allowing her to study his core magic movements almost regularly as he progressed through the ranks.

Altaїr frowned as he found only the random movements of his magic, noting the absence of the tightly controlled pathways the runes made that focused his magic into certain areas of his body when the arrays were active. "Curious…"

"Have you noticed any changes about you since our last session?" asked Catherine, absently retying her shirt as she focused on the business at hand rather than the pleasure they had been experiencing. "Anything you couldn't understand?"

"When I assassinated the Templar Council, I did catch a bullet with my bare hands. I just redid my rune systems a few days before that."

"A normal feat while the rune arrays are active. The runes focus your magic into reinforcing your skin to mimic steel, increasing reaction time too twice that of a normal human, and other such actions," said Catherine, dismissively waving a hand in Altaїr's direction as she paced in front of the Master Assassin. "Easily explainable."

"My rune arrays were not active,"

"What?"

Altaїr sighed as he felt a large headache coming on.

**October 25, 1994. **

"So… when is Altaїr supposed to be back?" asked Padraig, hanging upside-down by his knees from a torch bracket. "He'd better be here. Talal wants to take on that Ravenclaw team in Quidditch."

"Patience, my love," said Alyssandra, sitting under the torch bracket he was hanging from, sitting Indian style with her hands on her knees. She blinked quickly a few times, her eyes adjusting to the light after having them shut for so long. Meditation helped her extend the amount of time between feedings, allowing her stores of blood to last longer. "An Assassin is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."

"Stop quoting Tolkien," said Potr as he leaned against a pillar, watching the pair bicker. "Has anyone seen Master Shadow?"

"Why do you call Master Raphael that?" asked Padraig as he released the torch bracket, flipping quickly in midair to land on his feet. His boots barely made a sound, though Piotr was unsure if that was due to skill or a silencing charm. Padraig's eyes widened comically as he noticed something out of place behind his friend.

"Because I am of the shadows," said an Assassin, his arms folded as he stood just behind the Russian Master.

Piotr jumped at the sight of the famed 'Shadow of Masyaf,' Raphael de la Vega.

Little was known about the man. Everyone wondered where he came from, who trained him, how old he was, and, most importantly, what his face looked like. He had appeared one day, dressed in Assassin robes, already customized in a deep purple, and joined as a Master Assassin. Al Mualim had been very impressed with his abilities, aallowing an unknown entity to walk right in to the Order.

Raphael smiled as he raised his head to smile at Piotr, the black, tribal-looking tattoos on his face shifting mesmerizingly as he did so. "A little jumpy today, aren't we, Piotr? Are we going to need more training?"

Piotr shivered as he remembered what Raphael's version of training was: going into a training room and letting his unfortunate victim flounder around in the dark as the older master hunted him. One particular memory was that of a pair of glowing red eyes watching him from beneath the roots of a fallen tree.

Raphael's tattoos were conduits for his magic, a customized version of runes to makes his eyes glow a crimson hue with enough brightness to pierce the shadows that were beneath every Assassin's hood.

He said it was for the shock and awe factor, making his targets, and students, freak out as the 'eyes of a demon' glared at them.

"But I have not come to mock your amateurish abilities," said Raphael, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture as Piotr opened his mouth to reply. "Has Master Altaїr arrived yet?"

"Nyet," replied Piotr, looking back over his shoulder, out at the grounds of Hogwarts. "We have not seen him."

Raphael smiled.

"Perhaps my entrance was too subtle," said Altaїr, appearing from the shadows behind a suit of armor, chuckling at the startled looks on all the Assassin's faces, sans Master Raphael.

"What? I was trained by the best!"

Raphael let out a short bark of laughter as he strode forward to greet his brother-in-arms. "In time, perhaps you will take my place."

Altaїr smiled as he threw an arm around his former mentor's shoulders. "Perhaps…"

Raphael smirked, his eyes flashing crimson beneath his hood, in amusement. "In a _long_ time… a very _long_ time…"

All the assembled Assassins broke down, their reactions ranging from giggles to full blown laughter, as Altaїr hung his head in exasperation.

"Anyways, Master Talal wants to play those kids from Ravenclaw," said Padraig, walking over with an arm around Alyssandra. "Davies said today was okay for a game, if you're interested."

Altaїr raised his head and shot a look at the Irishman. "You want me to play Seeker again, don't you?"

**Quidditch Pitch…**

Seven Assassins entered the pitch, their red streaked leader leading the wedge. All smiled as they saw the seven Ravenclaw students standing in the center of the pitch, their blue and gold uniforms flapping slightly in the wind.

"Pitch is dry," said Padraig, giving the turf a kick. "It'll make taking off easier."

"True... Sun's a bit bright, though. Altaїr, be careful not to lose it in the sun," said Alyssandra, absentmindedly swinging the bat she held. Whenever an Assassin saw her playing Quidditch, they winced in sympathy. Her strength as a dhampir was equal to that of a Warrior ranked Assassin whose runes were active.

"I'm going to enjoy this," said Talal, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. Altaїr looked back at him, noting the little shiver Talal always sported when he was excited.

"You always say that," muttered Raphael in a low voice as he tightened the straps of his left bracer.

Talal, having heard Raphael's comment despite the meter and a half between them, said, "I always do."

**Ok, another filler chapter. I'm sorry. **

**Next chapter: the match between Ravenclaw and the Assassins, the arrival of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and the Goblet of Fire.**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	11. Matches and Entrances

**I_began_writing_this_chapter_all_hyped_because_it_featured_a_Quidditch_scene._Turns_out_that_I_really_don't_know_how_to_write_a_Quidditch_match.**

**But,_as_usual,_I_leave_the_decision_of_whether_I_can_write_well_or_not_up_to_you.**

"It seems that news of our match has spread like wildfire, Master," said Padraig, noting that the stands were filling at a quite rapid rate. A few groups of students actually crafted banners bearing slogans like 'Go, Assassins, Go!' and 'Assassins for the Win!' much to the surprise of the other Assassins stationed around the pitch. "We seem well received."

Altaїr smirked before leading his team to the Ravenclaw team, stopping a few feet away.

"Safety and peace, Roger Davies," said Altaїr, nodding at the assembled Ravenclaw team. "A fine day for a match, wouldn't you agree?"

"Greetings, Master Altaїr. It is a perfect day," said Davies, looking up at the sky.

Altaїr noticed the Ravenclaw Seeker, a young woman of Asian heritage by the name of Cho Chang, staring at them with a confused look on her face. "Where's your brooms?"

The Assassins all chuckled as one, exchanging glances with each other. "We do not need brooms."

"How are you supposed to play, then?" asked one of the beaters, swinging his club by the strap. "You can't fly."

With a grin on each of their faces, the seven assembled Assassins scattered, each charging from the center of the pitch for one of the many towers along the perimeter of the field. Instead of slowing down so they could stop in front of the towers, they stepped up them, transforming most of their forward momentum in to vertical thrust before using their magic to carry themselves to the top.

"We are Assassins," said Altaїr, standing on the guard rail at the top of the tower, a two-inch piece of wood, with apparent ease. His voice did not boom through the pitch, as many would do with a powerful _sonorus _charm, but merely sounded as if he were conversing from a distance of a few feet. "We do not fear death… we welcome it… and the rewards it brings."

By this time, the rest of the team had reached the top of their own towers, all crouched or standing as Altaїr was. Raphael was doing his best to look like a gargoyle, crouching atop his tower, while Padraig was emulating King Kong at the top of his, hanging onto the flag atop the pointed roof while pounding his chest with the other. Alyssandra was already shaking her head at his antics.

"Let us show these Ravenclaws what it means to have no fear," said Altaїr, using his hood's runes to speak directly to the other Assassins. All nodded in unison to the Master Assassin, ready to follow his lead.

"Go to God." With that command being heard by all, Altaїr dove off the tower, falling headfirst towards the pitch far below. Without hesitation, the rest launched themselves from the rooftops a mere second after him.

The Ravenclaws and the assembled spectators gasped, not because the Assassins had jumped off the Quidditch pitch towers, but because they were falling no longer.

Trails of blue and red came from their hands and feet, twisting and winding as the Assassins streaked through the air. They flew in a stylized pattern, briefly creating the symbol of the Assassin Order in the sky before scattering to practice some maneuvers.

Altaїr came to float in front of them, arms folded across his chest, completely at ease. The red glow emanating from the soles of his boots dimmed, allowing him to slowly lose altitude until he was a foot of the ground. "Impressed?"

"…h-how do you do that?" asked Davies, finding his voice. The others nodded mutely, each trying to understand how they were flying without brooms.

Altaїr held up his hands, displaying a metal ring in the palms of his gloves. A quick pulse of magic had him sliding backwards, as if he had pushed himself off something solid while on an ice rink. Putting his arms behind him, he did the same and returned to his position in front of them. "Magical foci implanted in special gloves. We can fly."

Altaїr thought it best not to tell them that the some Assassins could fly without the gloves, at an expense of slightly slower speeds and control, should they chose to get the necessary runes. _Gotta keep those mysteries…_

All the Ravenclaws were stunned, mouths hanging open, some of them dropping their brooms.

"Shall we shake?" asked Altaїr, holding out his hand to Davies. "I am under the impression that captains are to shake hands before the game begins."

Shaken out of his shock, Davies clasped Altaїr's hand and shook; noting the Assassin did not go further than a firm squeeze, knowing the Master Assassin could probably pulverize all the bones in his hand should he exert his full strength. "Good luck, Master Altaїr"

"To you as well, Roger Davies," replied Altaїr.

With a pulse of his magic, Altaїr soared into the sky to position himself above the rest of his team, the traditional place for seekers to start off at. His position allowed him to see the entire pitch, allowing him to track the elusive snitch. Not that it was a particularly hard thing to do, seeing how all Assassins had eagle-like vision.

Talal took his place at the centermost point of the arc on their side of the pitch, positioning himself in a straight line with the Ravenclaw goal posts. It was a favored tactic of his to immediately snatch the quaffle and beeline for the goalposts.

Alyssandra streaked over to hover at the centerline dividing the pitch, floating a few feet away from the Ravenclaw beater. She swung her club idly, waiting for Madam Hooch to release the quaffle and the bludgers. As a dhampir, her strength would easily knock a bludger off its intended path and onto whatever path she chose.

Raphael sped to the goalposts, prepared for any attempt on the hoops. He preferred the position of the keeper rather than any other, as it allowed him to watch almost every player, which, after a few shots on goal, gave him the ability to predict their movements. It usually took a few shots on goal before he figured out everyone's patterns, but he enjoyed the thrill.

Padraig took up his position to the right of Talal. His job was to support the Master Assassin in scoring points as the right-wing chaser. A favorite technique the two played was for him to circle the hoops while Talal shot down the center. He would throw the quaffle to Padraig and position himself so that, when Padraig threw it back, he could score easily.

Piotr was at the opposite side of the circle to Alyssandra, idly checking the bindings on his cesti he used in the place of a beater bat. He dislikes the club, preferring to punch the charmed iron balls, saying that it gave him much more control over its path. Many an overconfident Assassin found a bludger in their path when they thought the large Assassin had no aim.

Ronan, a Grand Assassin who wore robes with red and black veins running along them, stood in midair next to Talal, prepared for his part of the scoring. He used deceptive techniques, making it difficult to determine which way the quaffle would be going. His favorite trick was to corkscrew as he approached the rings before throwing the quaffle at one of the three. Usually it was the one furthest from where the keeper thought it would go. His techniques did not always work, so improvisation was his second option.

Madam Hooch watched the Assassins with a pair of raised eyebrows, astonished at the sight of several people hovering in midair under their own power. She shook her head to bring herself back to the present before putting on a stern glare. She looked each one of the players in the eyes and enunciated clearly, "I want a nice, _clean_ game… from all of you."

Much to her surprise, each Assassin placed their hands to their heads in salute, conveying the message that they understood and would comply. Most of the time, she merely received a bored look from the players or, on a rare occasion, a nod. She shook her head, choosing to not even try to understand the mysterious order.

With a kick to the heavy trunk beside her, she let loose the golden snitch, which streaked off to hide, and the bludgers, which rocketed to a random position before hovering un-aggressively. This failsafe kept the players safe until the math actually started.

The golden snitch, however, had no such compulsions and flew off as fast as its wings could take it. Altaїr kept track of it for a moment before shifting his gaze back to referee below. He could make no move before the quaffle was released and rather enjoyed actually hunting the

"The bludgers are loose, quickly followed by the golden snitch!" came the voice of Lee Jordan, happily commentating from one of the towers, glad to be commentating once again. "The Assassins and the Ravenclaws are ready to play!"

Madam Hooch then lifted the quaffle and tossed it skyward before mounting her own broom. She took to the air, looping wide to reach a point where she could easily see everything.

As soon as the quaffle reached the same level as the players, both teams launched into action.

Altaїr and Cho immediately went higher, gaining altitude to make it easier to see the snitch, as the chasers scrambled for the quaffle. The Ravenclaw chaser, fast on the release, who had captured the quaffle flew directly towards the goal posts, flying as fast as his broom could take him.

Raphael floated in front of the hoops, arms crossed over his chest as the chaser neared his position, harried by the combined forces of Ronan and Talal while Padraig ran interference with the other two chasers. With a grin and a pulse of power at the last second, Raphael propelled himself directly in front of the left most ring as the chaser released the quaffle.

The quaffle landed in Raphael's hands with a smack of leather as the chaser zoomed past the goal posts, looking over his shoulder at the Master Assassin with a missed look of both annoyance and amazement.

Raphael tossed the quaffle in the air and launched it back towards the center with a kick, made much more powerful by a well timed burst from his right boot. The quaffle was, more or less, a red blur to the Ravenclaw chasers who were desperately braking in midair, attempting to get back to their end of the pitch before any of the Assassin chasers could begin their own offensive.

The pair scattered, however, when a bludger came careening through the air, courtesy of Piotr's fists. One rolled to the left, hanging on for dear life, as the other dove out of the way, leaving the quaffle's path unaffected.

Talal threw a quick salute to Piotr as he snagged the quaffle and started passing it between him and Padraig, both of them holding the quaffle for no longer than two seconds. This had the keeper's head bouncing back and forth between the two, much like an observer of a tennis match.

Altaїr tilted his head to the left, avoiding the bludger the Ravenclaw beater had sent at the back of his head. He sent out a whistle, starting low but ending high, which Alyssandra's advanced hearing picked up.

The favor was returned by the female damphir, making the Ravenclaw beater go into evasive maneuvers to avoid being hit, nearly colliding with one of the towers.

Altaїr grinned at Alyssandra while keeping an eye on Cho, who was hovering a few meters to the left of his position. Instead of flying around and actively searching for the snitch, she hung around the Master Assassin, waiting for the moment that he found the snitch, confident that her broom was as fast and maneuverable as she needed to out fly the Assassin.

Knowing her plan, Altaїr put his hands behind him and channeled some power into his hand foci, accelerating from zero to a hundred and fifty miles per hour in the span of seven point one seconds, an acceleration that is a few seconds faster than the newly released Firebolt and much faster than the Cleansweep model Cho was riding.

So focused was she, on the Assassin outrunning her, she forgot to keep her head on a swivel.

For seekers to actively search for the golden snitch, one must also be aware of the dangers of the merciless bludgers that randomly attack any of the fourteen players on the field.

As Altaїr came to a halt by his team's goal posts, Raphael grinned at him, chuckling under his breath. As he swung idly from one goalpost with one hand, he pointed back to the middle of the pitch, back the way Altaїr had just rocketed from.

"Well done, Altaїr," said Raphael, his eyes glowing red while flashing a well known smile.

The red striped Master Assassin looked back to find Cho being carried to the ground by one of the Ravenclaw chasers. "She take a bludger to the head?"

"Si," replied the Shadow, having just relocated to the top of the goal post. "Ding, dong, the witch is dead."

"Ms. Chang was struck along the jaw line, rendering her unconscious upon impact," said Alyssandra, coming to hover alongside the crouching Raphael and the floating Altaїr. "The replacement seeker will have to be called while she is taken to the hospital wing."

Raphael nodded, watching the young women carried off the field. "All that is left is for you to catch that snitch, Altaїr."

Altaїr grinned as he unfolded his arms, displaying the fluttering golden ball firmly grasped between two of his fingers. "You mean this snitch?"

Alyssandra fell off her perch at the sight of the winged golden marble. Raphael held his palm out to Alyssandra, chuckling at the flabbergasted look on her face. "I told you he'd catch it without anyone noticing. Pay up."

With a scowl in the direction of both Master Assassins, Alyssandra produced two ingots of gold and placed them in Raphael's hands. With a quick flutter of his fingers, the gold disappeared from view to one of his many hidden pockets.

"How long do you think it will take everyone to notice that the snitch has been caught?" asked Alyssandra, watching the reserve Ravenclaw seeker take to the air and have play resumed as she batted a bludger with twitch of her arm. Without even looking in their direction, she had placed the bludger in the path of the lead chaser, knocking the quaffle from his grasp as he scrambled to dodge.

"I'll let us gain another twenty points or so before I tell Madam Hooch," said Altaїr, folding his arms to hide the snitch once again.

Ten minutes of high speed play later, Altaїr, flew over to Madam Hooch and displayed the golden ball, causing her to call the match.

Final score was two hundred and thirty to twenty in the Assassin's favor.

**October 30, 1994**

Altaїr and the rest of the Assassins stood along the walls of the Great Hall, each atop a cube of black marble two feet in length. The color was gone from their faces and uniforms, replaced with the white on black of the stone beneath their feet. To an observer who had never been to Hogwarts before this night, the sixteen Assassins looked like solid statues, eight on either side of the hall evenly spaced from the entrance to the staff table.

Their stances were identical; their left leg forward, right leg at ninety degrees to the other, arms loose, positioned same as their feet. Unlike most of the statues in Masyaf, the sixteen did not have their blades displayed openly, as all weapons were tucked away in their respective sheaths and the hidden blades where not unsheathed.

_~When do the other schools arrive, Master Altaїr?~_ appeared on his visor, asked by one of the novices, stationed second from the entrance on the right side of the hall.

_~The wards have been raised again, so the defenses are back on,~_ said Raphael from the opposite side of the hall, near the head table. _~I assume they have a little show for the masses.~_

_~I sense forty-two magical signatures within the Entrance Hall.~_ said Altaїr, pulling up his personal database on his cowls HUD. _~Several persons are familiar to me.~_

_~Templars?~_ asked Ronan, the growl in his voice evident over the HUD. _~Could they have found us already?~_

_~No. I would sense the residual magic the Templars use to track their agents, as would several of the other Masters… these signatures are familiar to _me_.~_

_~From one of your missions, perhaps?~_ said Alyssandra, intentionally vague, watching the formerly red-streaked Assassins out of the corner of her eye.

_~Perhaps…~_

_~Movement: Dumbledore is approaching the podium.~_

_~Thank you, Kieran. I believe he intends to announce our guests.~_

"Ladies and gentlemen!" At Dumbledore's call, the hundreds of individual conversation immediately petered out as everyone turned and faced their headmaster. "Please join me in welcoming the lovely ladies of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and their Headmistress, Madam Maxime!"

As Dumbledore finished, the doors opened with a groan and twenty-one of the forty-two magical signatures approached.

Twenty young women entered, nineteen of them wearing a dress of blue silk, a small mantle of the same color and a hat shaped almost like a teardrop, but with a slanted bottom as the brim was turned up on one side.

They walked in wedge formation, stopping twice to lean back, reach out a hand and sigh musically, once in each direction, before running to the front, where the released a small number of conjured birds from beneath the mantle about heir shoulders. When they reached the end of the school tables, they broke formation and lined up in front of the staff table, facing the way they had come from.

One girl dressed in a leotard of silver and orange performed a series of back handsprings while the last girl, dressed like the others, performed a series of pirouettes. When they had reached the end of the student tables as well, all twenty of them bowed to their headmistress.

Dumbledore stepped down from the podium and kissed Madam Maxime's hand, welcoming her in a low tone that was lost to the thunderous applause caused by the student body of Hogwarts.

When Dumbledore was done talking with the half-giant headmistress, the visitors from Beauxbatons stepped to the side as to allow the visitors of Durmstrang perform their own entrance.

Dumbledore raised his hands for silence, which was amazingly effective once again. "And now… our friends from the North. Please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang and their Highmaster, Igor Karkaroff!"

The sons of Durmstrang entered in single file, slamming the butt of their walking sticks into the ground in time, sparks flying from each strike. After a few repetitions of the bang, bang-bang beat; the first few dropped their staves, leaving them for the others to pick up, and ran forward to the end of the student tables. Two started performing some breakdance moves while the others lined up in front of the staff table, much like the Beauxbatons students before them.

As the two breakdancers finished, Igor Karkaroff and Victor Krum walked down the aisle, heading for Dumbledore. When they arrived, the two dancers breathed fire into the form of two serpents which joined to create a bird with outstretched wings before fading.

Igor greeted Dumbledore with a smile and a hug before leading his students to the side opposite of the Beauxbatons students.

Dumbledore then walked to stand between the house tables and said, "Hogwarts! Let us entertain our guests in the best way we can! All stand! Maestro, please!"

As one, the entire student body, give or take a few, began singing the school song, which resulted in a lot of weird looks being tossed their way from both schools as well as the immobile Assassins around them.

_~That was… you know what? I got nothing.~_ Raphael said, speaking for all of the others.

_~Dibs on the first obliviation from one of the Masters later.~_ said the other novice.

Raphael opened a private channel with Altaїr, isolating the conversation from the others. _~That girl… is she the one who-~_

_~Yes.~_ said Altaїr, watching Beauxbatons students through his cowl. _Fleur Delacour… we meet again…_

_~She's the one who's seen my face…~_

**A/N Since this is my most read story, I think I'll tell everyone what I have planned for my other stories:**

**Shihai no Chikara is giving me headaches, so I'm gonna finish it until I have more ideas on how to produce it. One more update is guaranteed before I call it complete. Probably a first in a series of NarutoStarWars crossovers, but we'll see.**

**Naruto of the Dunedain is not going anywhere. I'll work on it when I care to, but don't expect regular updates. Posts will be sporadic at best, if at all.**

**Despite the large amount of people saying I should continue my BladeXNaruto X-over, I have decided to scrap it. I may release a new version some time in the future, but don't get your hopes up.**

**Heroes Never Die: Ronin Mahariel and Harry Potter and the Brotherhood are becoming my number one and two priorities, so I'll be focusing on them for now on.**

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	12. Memories

**HPB_has_recently_broken_400_reviews.**

**Thanks_to_all_who_have_added_this_story_to_their_favorite_list_and_their_story_alerts.**

**I_take_no_credit_for_the_birthday_speech._Alexander_Thornton_wrote_as_a_quick_example_which_has_been_edited_for_my_purposes.**

**The_dress_also_isn't_mine._I'll_post_a_link_on_my_profile.**

* * *

**May 1, 1994.**

The dinner party was in full swing. It was a lavish affair, seeing how it was not everyday that a young woman turned seventeen. The Delacour family spared no expense, hiring the best magical caterers in France and the best entertainment money could buy.

The party was held in their dining hall, a great room with a rich red carpet covering the floor from wall to wall. Six giant arches split the room on either side, cutting a quarter of the room from the rest. The center section was surrounded by twenty circular tables, each seating six guests. At the far end of the hall, opposite the main entrance, was the family's table where Pierre Delacour had risen to his feet, a flute of wine in one hand and a fork in the other.

Their guests were chatting with their neighbors, talking about who was implicated in the latest gossip, how happy they are for the birthday girl, the architecture of the dining hall, and a hundred other relatively unimportant topics.

A discreet _sonorus_ charm had the small chime of metal on glass calling everyone's attention to the patriarch of the Delacour household.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this evening," he said, his voice filling the room with no magical enhancement necessary. "I have been looking forward to this day ever since the moment that my daughter was born. With each passing birthday, a couple of things come to mind. First of all, it makes me feel old to see Fleur growing up so quickly. However, I am quickly consoled in the fact that with each passing day, she is one day closer to getting off my payroll!"

Polite laughter filled the air as Fleur blushed lightly, chuckling behind a raised hand.

"I really don't know what I will do with the money I will save from not being a part of Fleur's wild spending habits. My accountant says I may even save enough money to buy a small island!"

Guests, who had previously been holding in their mirth, dropped all pretences and began laughing outright, increasing the hue of Fleur's blush.

"I will always remember holding Fleur in my hands as a baby, watching her take her first step and her first words. Little did I know that she would mutter another two point five _billion_ words over the course of the next seventeen years. I remember her coming home terrified after her first day of school. Today feels like a natural progression.

"Has she changed over the last seventeen years? Yes and no. She has always been a girl with a tender heart, beauty, and unbridled intelligence.

The last remnants of laughter had died down, and polite applause started, making Fleur sit up straighter. She looked immensely proud, much like her mother and little sister.

The applause died out as Pierre raised his hands for silence. "I remember Fleur bringing home an injured pigeon and that was my first glimpse into her warm and tender heart. "Now that Fleur has joined the ranks of us adults, I suppose that it is my duty to leave her with some wisdom.  
"I know that you're going to party later with your friends. Always remember this - make sure the pleasures of your youth doesn't bring you pain in your old age.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, please rise and join me in proposing a toast, to Fleur!"

"To Fleur!" echoed everyone else, raising their glasses in a salute towards the blonde witch at the head table.

"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Rousseau," said Pierre, shaking hands with another guest before turning to the next. After his speech and the family had moved out to circulate among them, all the guests began to make their way over to personally bestow their congratulation on both the birthday girl and the father.

Much to his surprise, Pierre didn't recognize the young man who stepped forward next.

He was six-foot-five, which gave him two inches on the Frenchman, dressed in a set of robes that looked more like a Muggle suit than anything else. By the look of his hands and the fit of his tailored suit, Pierre assumed the man was no pushover, probably weighing near two hundred pounds with much of that accumulated mass in muscle.

The man had raven-black hair, drawn back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, tied with a red ribbon that trailed down his back with the rest of his hair. Pierre couldn't quite place his nationality, the tan of his skin making it difficult to accurately place his homeland.

A small scar on his lips twisted as he smiled, not taking away from the face but enhancing it. The grin reached his eyes, which were the deepest emerald green Pierre had ever seen before.

Pierre grasped the outstretched hand, noting that he was right about the man's physiology after experiencing the firm handshake.

"Thank you for coming, Monsieur…" Pierre trailed off, arching an eyebrow in silent question as he retracted his hand to lay it on the tabletop.

"Auditore. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Signor Delacour," he returned, a slight Italian accent to his voice. "My best wishes to you and your daughter."

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Auditore. I must say, I do not recognize you. Have we met before?"

"No, we have not. I was brought by Signor Dubois, who believed I would enjoy this outing," Ezio said, taking a glass of wine from a passing server. "I must say, you have an impressive array of wines, Signor Delacour. This is Chateau Lafite, 1989, correct?"

Pierre raised an eyebrow again, curious at the offhand way he remarked upon expensive wines and identified one within seconds. "You have a good deal of experience with wine, Monsieur Auditore?"

"Sì, sì. I run a business importing high-end wine-and-spirits," explained Ezio, taking a deep breath of the scent wafting from his glass as he waved his hand dismissively. "I specialize in rare European wines and fine liquors, both magical and mundane."

_I have not heard of this business…_ thought Pierre, puzzled. _I know most of the importers, how do I not know of this man?_

"Would you honor me with your thoughts on the red that was served with the entrée?" he asked, eyeing the young man before him, thinking him too young to have as much experience as he claimed. He turned to one of the waiters and whispered an order. The server returned in seconds, carrying a glass of the red wine and a smaller glass filled with water.

"Certainly, Signor. Allow me to cleanse my palate first."

With that, Ezio picked up the water and took a small sip, which he swished about his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He replaced the water and took up the wineglass, placing it on a clear section of the table before jogging it gently in a circle, creating a steady, high swirl inside the half-filled glass.

"Lovely color," he remarked, watching the wine swish about. "Almost purple… remarkable body."

He ceased the circular motion of his glass, satisfied the wine was sufficiently aerated, and lifted it to get a better look, examining it with a critical eye. "Long legs… and smooth."

He tilted it forward, closed his eyes, leaned his nose full inside the voluminous Bordeaux glass and inhaled deeply. The aroma had him thinking of the times he had relaxed in a field of Alpine strawberries, confirming his original thoughts about the wine.

"The Gros Vien grape. High altitude variety, very rare," he said before taking in a larger mouthful. "The fruit has tremendous character…youthful, richly acidic."

A second inhale followed, just to be sure. "I had no idea you were so decadent, Signor Delacour. There are so few bottles of the '61 Chambave Rouge in the world, and you're serving one to those who do not recognize it for what it really is.

"To be frankly honest, I'm appalled that your sommelier would allow it to be served with this kind of entrée, instead of the rustic northern Italian cuisine it was meant to accompany."

"Now – with your leave, Signor Delacour – I'd like to find someplace I can enjoy the rest of my wine with a good cigar."

Nodding to the other couples who had been discretely eavesdropping, he added, "Signori; signore."

Leaving the table of stunned faces, he walked quickly toward the banquet room's exit, which had been left open so the guests could wander around the ground floor and out to the gardens. He flicked his fingers, conjuring a small flame above his palm to light his cigar, his last Punch Rare Corojo. _Now… where is that library?_

An amused, muffled chuckle filled his ear; his partner stationed a kilometer away trying not to overload the audio rune with his laughter. "Sounds like you've learned a few things since '88."

"I've been at school."

* * *

The library was found easily enough, only a few hallways away from the dining room.

Ezio walked along the leftmost wall, looking for the switch that would unlock the hidden door the Seers had discovered, listed in one of the many journals by an Assassin of 1743. Apparently, what was now the Delacour Mansion used to be an Assassin's den a few hundred years ago, which supposedly held clues to the whereabouts of several ancient armor caches, some dating back to the time of Altaїr.

_Now… if I was a hidden door, where would I be_, wondered Ezio as he walked, trailing a hand over the book covers as he looked for any sign of the Assassins. _The Seers said the library, yet they didn't point out its exact location…typical._

Ezio paused after reaching the end of the left wall, his activated Eagle Vision catching a glow from the corner on the other side of the library. Ezio rolled his eyes as he walked over, stepping between several of the chest high bookcases on his way to the fireplace.

_Of course it would be the fireplace_, Ezio thought as he puffed on his cigar, looking around the mantel and the frame, looking for that one out of place detail that would reveal the release for the hidden door. _I should have immediately gone to the fireplace. It's the cliché hiding place for a secret door._

"Have you found something that interests you, Monsieur Auditore?"

Ezio smirked, having heard the light footsteps trail him since he left the dining hall and was unsurprised when he turned to see Fleur Delacour standing a few paces away.

She wore a luminous halter top dress in a beautiful pale silver grey. It was slim fitting, a sheath that featured a dramatic halter neckline, which lead his eyes to an amazing back treatment, and served to accentuate the elegance of the taffeta gown. The asymmetrical sweeping waist flatters and the glitz of the brooch at the hip only enhanced the silhouette of this halter top gown, made even more beautiful by the woman who wore it.

Ezio had killed men who had claimed to be untouchable. Broken into places that were said to be impenetrable. Hit targets from distances that were near impossible at angles that were improbable. Fought men who were nigh unbeatable. He'd done a number of things that seemed unlikely but were completed nonetheless.

What he hadn't done was feel that way about women before. He'd met many beautiful women, all intriguing in their own unique way, but he'd never had such a reaction to anyone. Something about her phased him… something called to him, making him feel like he'd just taken a kick to the chest and had forgotten how to breathe. Something that made his stomach feel like there was something fluttering around inside it.

Maybe it was her eyes, those crystal-clear cerulean eyes that observed him from a face set in a look of cool disposition with a brazen look of almost desire.

Maybe the way her lips formed a saucy smile as she noted his raised eyebrow as she looked him over.

Perhaps it was the way the dress she wore appeared darker than what it appeared to be, almost contrasting with her cream-hued skin.

Possibly the way the ambient lighting reflected off her silvery blonde hair, which hung loose down her back almost to the point of grazing the small of her back.

It wasn't the allure that her quarter-Veela blood gave her that drew his gaze, as he was immune to most forms of natural and synthetic compulsions, but something that he couldn't quite classify.

"Something that interests me?" he asked, returning her look with one of his own, a smirk on his face as her cheeks colored slightly at his perusal of her. "Yes, you could say that."

"Oh?" she queried in a throaty way, walking up to him with a sensual sway in her hips that he had not seen when she had moved amongst the crowd of guests. She stopped her approach well within his personal space, close enough to feel his breath against her skin and, in turn, him hers. Close enough that, if they both turned their heads the right way, their lips would meet in a kiss.

"What is it that interests you, Monsieur Auditore?" she asked, tilting her head to look into his eyes. She placed a hand on his shoulder and ran it down to his chest, where she grasped his tie and tugged lightly.

"I could list a number of things," he whispered, tilting his head down to speak directly into her ear. "But only one is important right now."

Fleur barely suppressed a shiver as his voice, a mellifluous sound of itself, reverberated through the air at her ear. She closed her eyes and breathed, inhaling a mixture of citrus fruits, cinnamon, and a tint of sandalwood as she put her free hand on his shoulder, pulling him flush against her.

"Who are you, really?"

Ezio chuckled, the vibrations of his chest transferring to her easily. "Only the most interesting man in your life."

"We'll see about that," she said, before pulling him into a kiss.

The kiss was like nothing he or she had experienced before. The world's sounds faded into white noise, the lingering chatter of guests down the hall devolving into a murmur that was easily ignored. One of Ezio's hands went to the base of her neck, his fingers becoming tangled in her hair as he gently tilted her head and deepened the kiss. The other hand came to rest at her lower back, pulling her into his body. It was like honey, sweet, charged with electricity. Too short.

They pulled back slowly as the need for air became prevalent, both with their eyes closed, thinking about what they had just experienced. When they opened their eyes, they saw how that kiss – that lasted only fifteen seconds – had affected the other immensely.

Clap…clap…clap…clap.

Both turned quickly towards the sound, each stepping away from the other.

A man stood at the entrance to the library, a smirk on his lips as he placed his hands in his pockets. He was six foot seven, easily filling the doorway with his giant frame. His blonde hair was cropped short to his skull stylishly, obviously done by a professional. Brown eyes that were crinkled with amusement yet maintained a steely look, almost intimidating. His suit was impeccably tailored, almost a match to Ezio's but with one minute difference:

His suit bore a scarlet cross-shaped pin on the left lapel.

"Ezio Auditore," he drawled, strolling over to stand a yard away from the pair. "So…_nice_ to see you again."

"Ramirez," returned Ezio, his voice perfectly controlled even though he was mentally kicking himself for letting someone sneak up on him like that.

"When I heard you were here, I simply had to come and say hello," said Ramirez, still smiling. He looked pointedly at Fleur, who was glaring at him for interrupting them. "I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment, privately. Would you excuse us for a moment, Senorita?"

Predictably, Fleur was angry at such an attempt at a dismissal. "Who are you to order me about in my own home?"

Ramirez raised his hands quickly, trying to placate the quarter Veela before her fireball throwing side came out to play. "Forgive me, Senorita Delacour. I only meant that I wanted to talk to Ezio about a personal matter, one he and I prefer to be kept between ourselves. I meant no insult."

Fleur nodded slowly, still angry but more understanding. She looked at both men, noting the relaxed way they stood, as if they were colleagues of some sort. A few seconds of deliberation had her turning to Ezio and giving him a quick kiss on the lips before murmuring in his ear. "Come find me when you are finished, oui?"

"Oui."

With that, Fleur walked out of the library, deliberately swaying her hips for Ezio's enjoyment.

As soon as she stepped outside, Ramirez waved his hand, invoking his magic to cause the door to close and lock, cutting off the rest of the world from the two men.

"So…" Ramirez said in a low tone as he shrugged off his jacket, laying it over one of the bookcases. "Have my enemies sunk so low as to consort with half-breeds now?"

Ezio removed his jacket as well, using his magic to make it dissolve into tiny particles before disappearing completely. "It's interesting to see you here, Ramirez. For that comment, I'll make you die slowly… and here I thought the invitation said no dogs allowed."

Ramirez chuckled, not looking away from the slowly circling Assassin, matching Ezio step for step. "A dog, am I? I'm not the one playing the retriever for an old man whose power has dried up long ago."

"If his power had dried up long ago, then you wouldn't have that scar on your chest from the time you and your band of fools tried to take his head."

Ramirez's face grew angry, unconsciously rubbing his chest where a large scar went from shoulder to opposing hip. "He was lucky his sorcery was enough to save his life."

Ezio laughed as he removed his tie, hanging it on a torch bracket. "Not sorcery, old man, but skill."

"Enough!" shouted Ramirez, losing his cool. "I did not come to exchange barbs with you. I've come for the journals and you're in my way."

Ezio rolled his shoulders, shifting his apparel to his Masyaf Assassin uniform before drawing a curved dagger the length of his forearm and flicking his hidden blade into activation. "As I should be."

Ramirez reached into a pocket and withdrew a sword, a medieval looking hand and a half sword. He too flicked his wrist, a switchblade at his wrist flipping out into combat readiness. "You're not the only one with a few tricks up your sleeve."

* * *

Fleur stood at the door, ear pressed against it as she tried to listen in on what was going on in there. She had heard the sound of them talking, garbled through the wood to the point where their words were indecipherable, before the sound of steel on steel – much like the sound of blades she was familiar with from fencing – and a few muted shouts of pain coupled with tearing cloth.

Now, all was quiet. No sound emanated from the room or, at least, none that she could hear.

_What's going on in there?_

Fed up with waiting, she pulled her wand from its sheath at her ankle and unlocked the door, making it swing open.

She stepped into the room, intent on find out just what was going on in her family's house when she was stopped short at the sight before her.

Ezio was on one knee beside Ramirez with one hand on his eyes, sliding them closed. He no longer wore the impressive suit, now wearing a cloak of white with a splash of red around the waist and leather belts strapping blades of various sizes to his frame. The cloak had a hood, but it was not up at the moment. At his side was a satchel with a few pages of ancient-looking parchment sticking out of it.

Behind him, the inner hearth of the fireplace was sliding back into place, slowly covering up what looked like a secret passage.

"What's going on here?"

Ezio flinched, grabbed the bag and spun to his feet, facing the Veela descendent in an aggressive stance. He backed down as soon as he saw her, slipping into a more relaxed pose.

Before he could respond, she looked around him and saw the red flower blossoming on Ramirez's chest, scarlet staining the formerly pristine white shirt he wore.

"Is that _blood_?"

Ezio made no answer, simply taking a few steps toward her before disappearing silently, Apparating away.

Fleur turned on her heel and ran to her father as fast as she could in her three inch stilettos. "Father, where did Monsieur Auditore say he was from?"

Pierre looked very confused at the question.

"Auditore? Who's that?"

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	13. The Goblet of Fire

**When-I-started-this,-I-was-making-shit-up-as-I-went.**

**Now-I-almost-hate-the-fact-that-I-have-to-actually-_plan_-this-out.  
October 30, 1994.**

The witches of Beauxbatons joined the Ravenclaws at their table along the rightmost wall as their distaff counterparts from Durmstrang joined the Slytherin table along the opposite wall, starting conversations with those they would share the castle with for the next eight months with.

Roger Davies leaned over the table so that his voice could be heard over the clamor of all the other students. "Hello. I'm Roger Davies. Welcome to Hogwarts."

The two girls who sat across from him turned from their perusal of the statues and looked at him, the brunette with a smile across her face while the blonde kept up a look of cool indifference.

"I'm Aimeé Gravois," the brunette said, extending a hand across the table. Roger grasped hers lightly with his and bowed his head over it, bringing her hand almost to his lips.

"A pleasure, Aimeé," he said as he released her hand, a friendly smile of his own upon his face. His grin grew as Aimeé blushed lightly, looking very pleased with his actions. _Note to self_, he thought, _imitate Master Altaïr more often._

He looked over to the blonde, who still wore a detached look on her face. "And you are?"

"Fleur Delacour," she answered in a near emotionless tone. Roger was almost sure that the temperature had dropped significantly.

Aimeé hit her lightly with the back of her hand, giving her a quick look. "Come on, Fleur. Be nice. He's not a drooling idiot."

"He soon will be."

Aimeé opened her mouth to return another, more scathing statement when Roger cut in. "Why would I become a 'drooling idiot,' mademoiselle?"

Aimeé looked at Fleur with a raised eyebrow, jerking her head in his direction. Fleur sighed and nodded, waving a hand as if giving permission to proceed.

"Fleur is a quarter Veela, which usually causes males in her vicinity to become charmed by her presence alone," Aimeé explained, watching Fleur out of the corner of her eye, just in case she explained something Fleur didn't want getting out.

"Ah, that explains why I have the sudden urge stare at her and boast of my deeds," said Roger, folding his fingers in front of his face. "Luckily, I've some control over my actions."

"You've trained in Occlumency?" asked Fleur, a spark of interest in her eye.

"I have the basics mastered, which allows me better control of my emotion and mental faculties, the latter very important to any Ravenclaw," said Roger, his brows furrowed in thought. "Though long term exposure to your Veela Allure might fray my control, so if I become a 'drooling idiot,' just hit me over the head. That'll get me back to normal…somewhat anyway."

Aimeé's smile grew as she saluted Roger, clicking her heels beneath the table. "Aye, aye, Captain."

"Now that we have introduced ourselves, what do you think of Hogwarts thus far?" he asked, gesturing to the rest of the hall.

"Who are these statues of?" asked Aimeé, looking up at the armed and cloaked figures hewed out of black marble. "Are they famous?"

"Those are statues of our security force, a group who calls themselves the Assassins," explained Roger. "They're probably somewhere around the castle, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."

"So, we'll see them about the castle sooner or later?" asked another, looking at the statues with interest. "Some of them are really cute."

"Aimeé!" admonished Fleur, looking at her friend with an annoyed look on her face. "Might I remind you of Renaud?"

Aimeé scowled, remembering that last time she had gone on a date based on looks alone. The man had only one goal in mind for the length of that particular relationship: get in her pants as fast as possible. "That was a mistake. I've learned from it, okay?"

"I can introduce you, if you want," said Roger, staring at the two statues that were in the center of the lineup. "The two in the center are Master Raphael and Master Altaïr. Judging from the reactions of the other Assassins, they're the leaders of the team."

Fleur looked over, looking at the statues with a keen eye. _I've seen these uniforms before… that Ezio Audi-something wore the same._

"Do any of them have a scar across their lips?" she asked with what she hoped was an innocent look on her face. _If he's here, I'm going to beat the answers out of him myself._

"Master Altaïr has one, on the right side of his face," said Roger, pointing out his statue in the lineup. "Others have scars on other parts of their faces, but the only one with a scar on his lips is Master Altaïr."

Fleur looked at the statue, black marble forming a face that she wanted desperately to be familiar to her. _Assuming the statue is accurate, this 'Altaïr' closely resembles Ezio's physique, and by the look of the carving of his mouth suggests his face bears the same scar… it could be him._

_~The feast is coming to a close, Altaïr.~ _said Raphael, watching the heads of the three schools stand. The Durmstrang and Beauxbaton students immediately leapt to their feet, prompting scattered laughter amongst the Hogwarts students. They returned to their seats when their respective heads waved their hands, palm down.

"The moment has come," said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned and curious faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation" — there was a smattering of polite applause — "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

The Assassins had much better files on everyone in the room, of course, which was supplemented as soon as new info was found. Every aspect of Crouch and Bagman's public life, and a lot of their private lives, could be found in an Assassin dossier. ~_Bagman's in debt with the goblins…again…~_

_~That man has the worst luck…or Padraig has been messing with the odds again.~ _said Jacinta, her voice full of mirth.

_~He shouldn't have messed up that Templar triple kill I had set up in 'eighty-eight. But this one is not my fault.~_

There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced. His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore's long white hair and beard.

"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament – " _ ~they have indeed; dragons, a sphinx, and several other magical animals, dueling referees from Britain, Russia and France, and several magical plants~_ said Raphael, listing off the purchases as they rolled down his screen. "– and they will be joining Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime and I on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."

At the mention of the word "champions," the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall in his ancient moldy suit, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from the watching students; a few had to stand on their seats to see. One even climbed onto the statue of Raphael

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways . . . their magical prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction — and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.

"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,"

Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open on hinges that had probably not been used for a long time. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

_A good choice… wood holds magic much better than gold or precious metals…_Altaïr thought, his HUD displaying the high level of magic still in the enchantments on the simple cup.

Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," said Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.

"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

* * *

Everyone stood, ready to leave, already discussing the Tournament. A few had struck up conversations with the foreign students and were asking where they would be staying.

_Groan… crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Everyone froze at the creak of stressed stone accompanied by the sound of splitting marble. Several of the students stared, including Fleur, Aimeé and Roger, at the statues along the hall, which had shifted from their original positions.

With a bang of heavy marble meeting the floor, the black marble Assassin statues stepped off their plinths. Screams filled the air as they walked to the front of the head table, striding through the crowd with practiced ease, not stepping on any toes or even making a student fall. Any of the students, foreign or domestic, who were in the way were gently but firmly pushed to the side.

The three heads and two guests had moved to the front of the table, discussing the security arrangements Dumbledore had set for the tournament. Crouch had his wand out as soon as the statues started moving and, now that the sculptures had drawn close enough, cast a blasting spell. Madame Maxime chose to use a more direct approach, swinging a fist that could palm a medicine ball towards the approaching marble warriors.

The lead Assassin batted the spell aside with his arm, as if waving away an insect, and redirected it harmlessly into the ceiling. Before the Ministry official could fire off another spell, the Assassin palmed his arm out of the way and snatched the wand from his hand. The next Assassin in line placed his palm directly in Madame's path, not even moving as Maxime's fist bounced off the outstretched stone.

"I request that you don't do that again, Crouch, Maxime," said Altaïr, twirling the captured wand between his fingers. "Dumbledore, explain the situation. Raphael, heal the Madame's fist."

Both men bowed their heads slightly in acceptance, Dumbledore raising placating hands at the rest of the group while the black form of Raphael healed Maxime with brutal efficiency, which made the French half-giantess wince slightly as the broken bones shifted back into place.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please let me introduce the security force for the duration of the tournament, the Assassin Order. Master Altaïr – he indicated the one standing next to him, still twirling Crouch's wand – is in charge of the team. Should any of you feel that you are in danger in any way, shape, or form, please inform one of them and they shall bring either bring the matter to one of us heads or act in their own accord. Should any of them require your assistance, please cooperate to the best of your ability."

With that said, the black marble melted away, dripping off their coattails onto the stone floor before fading away quickly like water spilled on the desert sand. The Assassins then raised their right arms and threw a silver marble at the floor, disappeared into the smoke and, when the smoke cleared, vanished without a sound.

* * *

_The Assasins? That's who Ezio was!_ thought Fleur, walking down one of the many halls of Hogwarts in search of one of these mythical killers, thinking of the cold-blooded killer at her birthday party. "Why was he sent to my home? Was he after my father? Mother? Me?"

"If an Assassin wanted someone dead, they would be dead, mademoiselle," said an Assassin, making Fleur jump as he appeared from an alcove where he had been hidden from the casual observer. As she stared at him in shock, he turned on his heel and walked down the corridor, moving much faster than any Fleur had seen before. She reached out a hand to stop him, a protest on her lips as his white-with-red-veins cloak fluttered around a corner.

"Come back here!" Fleur shouted as she ran after him, making the corner to see him disappear again around another corner. _You're not getting away that easily_, she thought, tapping into one of the physical aspects of her Veela heritage: lighter bones and increased musculature. With a burst of speed, she ran around the corner and charged…

Only to find an empty hallway before her. Rattled by his sudden disappearance, she took a second to realize what she was seeing before looking for an escape route: a window that was hung open or door that was ajar that would indicate his path.

"Very few people will run _after_ an assassin," said the Assassin, his voice directly behind her.

She spun on her heel, already drawing her wand before she came to a stop. The wand tip, which was glowing a deep red, was inches away from the Assassin's shadowed hood. Breathing quicker than normal from the burst of speed, she asked, "You're the Master Assassin, aren't you?"

"Master Assassin Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad, at your service," said he, smirking all the while despite the wand in his face. She glared at him over the wand, blue eyes meeting the shadows under his cowl, searching for any telltale signs of his eyes. "Why do you seek us?"

"I want to know why one of you was at my home!" she growled, laying her wand upon his cheek so that any spell sent from it would hit his eye before anything else. Her eyes widened a sliver as the tip, still glowing, disappeared as it entered the darkness that shrouded the Assassin from the bridge of his nose to his forehead.

"'One of ours?' did this man give you his name, by chance? That would make it much easier to identify your mystery man."

"Your glibness does you no credit, especially when I have my wand to your eye," she said, angered by his carefree attitude in such a situation.

"Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you," he said, still smirking in an almost insufferable way. "…the grumpy one."

"Enough of your chattering! The Assassin I met was named Ezio Auditore da …la la la…"

The Assassin began chuckling, leaning back to avoid a jab to the eye should he move forward. He twisted to the side as his chuckles became laughter and put his hands on his knees, laughing so hard that tears fell from his eyes to hit the floor. "Ezio Auditore da la la la!"

In an instant, the Assassin came out of the crouch and slapped a hand over hers, palming the wand out of the way as to remove himself from its line of fire. A spin with the trapped hand had Fleur hitting the wall hard enough to force the breath from her lungs as the Assassin tugged the wand from her fingers and laid it on her cheek, just below her eye in a grim parody of the position he'd been in only seconds ago.

Before she knew what was happening, he was the one in control, holding her at wand point.

"Why do you wish to know about one of our more successful Assassins?" he asked, his voice no longer jovial and happy but grim and dark. "What makes a young woman such as yourself ask such questions of a man who could make you disappear from existence?"

"I want to know why I'm the only one who remembers seeing him!" she hissed at him, twisting her face to the side to put distance between her wand and her eye. "I want to know why!"

The Assassin pulled back his hood and pulled down his mask.

An ice blue eye stared at her from under pronounced brows, his hair fell across his face in a blonde curtain before it was casually brushed over the top of his head. A trio of scars stretched from top of the right side of his face and cut across his nose, supplying the answer to why his other eye was closed, the middle scar neatly forming right over the eye.

"You meddle in affairs you have no business in."

With that, the Assassin dropped he wand and walked backwards into the shadows on an alcove holding a suit of armor. As the darkness swallowed him, he threw his hood back over his head just after his hair changed from blonde to black.

"Who are you?" she yelled, snatching up her wand. A quick _lumos_ lit up the shadows.

But he was no longer there…

* * *

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	14. Reflections and Champions

**I'm_back!_Sorry_about_the_time_between_chapters._I_just_couldn't_write_the_damn_story_right.**

**If_every_person_who_gets_an_email_about_this_story_leaves_a_review,_I'll_have_over_1.5k_reviews._Thanks_to_all_fellow_readers,_writers_and_fans.**

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**October 30, 1994.**

When one goes searching for information, they usually don't expect to aim a wand at someone, unless the application of force was completely necessary. More so, one doesn't expect that someone to reverse the situation in seconds and then disappear without a trace. Such actions would leave a great number of people who are unaccustomed to such actions in a semi-dazed state, resulting from the shock to their psyche after the adrenaline high wore off.

Thus, Fleur Delacour was wandering the halls, somehow making it to the third floor without conscious thought about actually climbing the stairs.

Her back was aching, a slight twinge that acted up with every step from her sudden impact with a stone wall. She could have healed the slight bruising in an instant, but her mind was elsewhere. She replayed the scene over and over again, how she had threatened a man who belonged to a group that called themselves 'Assassins,' which meant they kill people in their line of work. That was not a smart move on her part, especially faced with Altaïr, who looked like he'd fought in more wars on more continents than she cared to think about.

"What brings a potential Champion this deep into our territory?" asked a feminine tone, breaking through her thoughts like a _reducto_.

Fleur spun around; nearly reaching for her wand before she caught sight of the almost mandatory white hood and cloak the Assassins wore. The combined sight of the deep cowl with dark shadows beneath it and the slight smirk had her hand freezing in mid reach, her finger a few inches from her wand. _Another one? How do I manage to run into them in a castle this big?_

"Good choice," said the Assassin, stepping out from the shadows of a suit of armor while flipping a galleon across her knuckles, clinking across the metal plated gloves she wore on both hands. "The 'not drawing the wand' part. The 'walking into Assassin-held territory' part is, in fact, not usually a wise idea."

"I apologize," said Fleur as she moved her hand back to her side, away from the hidden wand, into a neutral position. One encounter with an Assassin had rattled her enough to know she didn't want to tangle with another. "I was a little distracted…"

The Assassin nodded slowly, still rattling the coin across her knuckles as she leaned on the wall, watching the French witch with her head cocked to the side in thought. "This has nothing to do with Master Altaïr, does it?"

"How do you- never mind. Yes… it is about Master Altaïr... or who I thought Master Altaïr was."

The Assassin leant back against the pillar, intrigued. Altaïr had mentioned that the Frenchwoman had approached earlier, but was rather lax on the reasoning behind it. The lack of details was much like Altaïr`s normal way of describing things, only answering direct questions with as few specifics as possible. He was a very private person outside his small circle of friends, which made the fact that a young woman was seeking him out made it all the more intriguing to the white cloaked Assassin.

"Why would you go looking for him? He is a Master Assassin, one of the best in his field, and does not usually leave people to come after him."

"A Master? He's the head of your order?"

"A Master is the highest rank that an Assassin can attain without becoming the leader of the order," said the woman in white. "We still have our Grandmaster."

"If he's a Master, what are you?"

"Novice, if you must know. Keep in mind, however, that all Assassins are trained killers and I have heard every possible crack at my rank." A quick twist of her lips had her face as grim as any before changing back to a smirk. "Most of us, unlike me, don't take jokes or insults at our ranks lightly. Tread carefully around the others."

"So I would guess," remarked Fleur, leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded with her hands clear of her wand, just in case the Assassin felt threatened and decided to disarm her for the second time that night. "A man named Ezio Auditore came to my house during my birthday party, in May. He bore the same scar that Altaïr had as a statue back in the hall."

"And you assumed that he was this Ezio?" scoffed the Assassin, shaking her head. "All but the newest of our Order bear scars, both physical and mental, and that quickly changes for everyone. I can easily name a dozen who bear similar scars."

"Yes? Who else?" Fleur asked, her tone interested.

"There are three tenets to our Creed, _mademoiselle_," said the Assassin, her voice suddenly emotionless. Fleur frowned, confused at the abrupt change of tone from jovial to deadpan. "The third and most important: Never compromise the Brotherhood."

"I don't want to know everything about whatever you people are! I just want to know why I'm the only one who remembers anything about him!"

The Assassin looked up, the new information renewing her intrigue in the woman standing in front of her. "You remember him, but none of the others who were there know of him?"

"Yes! Even my father – whom Ezio had impressed with his knowledge of wine – forgot anything about him."

The Assassin stroked her chin in thought, the multiple possibilities flashing through her mind. _Ezio had wiped himself? High level magic… especially after fighting a Templar and dissolving the body, that's what the report said… but she was unaffected by the magic… _She froze mid stroke, one particular theory coming to mind. It was an incredibly rare occurrence, but maybe…

"Mademoiselle, I think I may know why you alone can remember him, but it may take me a while to find out if I'm right or not."

"You can?"

"Maybe, but I need something from you first."

"What is it? Money?" asked Fleur, prepared to reach into her savings should the Assassin require it.

"_Non_, _non_, nothing like that," replied the Assassin, waving away the offer of money. "I need you to cast a spell at me, anything at all."

"A spell? That's it?" Such a simple request had Fleur confused, having expected a more difficult task or something to that effect. After slowly drawing her wand, as to not provoke another meeting of flesh and stone, and at the Assassin's nod, she cast a low level jinx, a jelly-legs.

The spell sped at the Assassin, who made no movement until the last possible second, reaching up to catch the spell in the palm of her hand. Rather than affecting her, the spell formed a tiny ball of light that was quickly tucked into a box the size of her fist. "That will do. I'll let you know what I find out."

All Fleur could do was gape at how the Assassin had used no shield nor spell to stop her jinx, then went on to handle it like it was a physical thing rather than a construct of energy.

The Assassin swiveled on her heel and walked through the door at the end of the hall without a backwards glance. Fleur tried to follow, but the door had slammed shut in her face and resisted all attempts to open it, physical otherwise. _How do they do this? Every single time?_

* * *

The series of rooms beneath the third floor corridor, formerly those that made up the gauntlet led to the Philosopher's Stone, had remained empty for the three previous years, accumulating little more than dust after the traps, tricks, and puzzles had been removed. As most of the school knew little about it, all the students and teachers never thought of what it was used for now.

The Assassins had turned it into their own personal base, using the Chess room as a sparring room and a reference center, where Assassins could practice hand-to-hand combat – armed or unarmed – magical dueling, and such while others could contact the others back at Masyaf, Monteriggioni, Langley, or one of the several others scattered across the globe.

Sidestepping around the resident couple, Padraig and Alyssandra, who were raining and deflecting punches as fast as they could upon each other, the white-cloaked assassin slipped between the fighting pairs to reach one of the several links to the headquarters. With a low hum, the terminal activated and displayed the Assassin crest for several seconds, before melting away to reveal a hooded Assassin dressed in grey, one of the analysts who were either retired or on the waiting list to be healed and shipped back out to the front lines.

"Ah, Anaïs! Wonderful to see you again," said the Assassin, smiling beneath his hood.

"Safety and peace, Master Reeves," she said, bowing her head respectively.

"No need to be so formal, my friend," he replied to her greeting, waving his hand in a nonchalant manner. "What can I do for you?"

Anaïs pulled the shrunken spell box from her belt and placed it on a glowing circle of runes, a teleportation array specifically designed to transport items from one terminal to another. With a quick flash, the box disappeared from the pedestal. "I need an analysis of this."

Reeves raised an eyebrow beneath his cowl as he picked up the box. A quick flip of the lid displayed its contents, which made him roll his eyes as he closed it. "It's a reverse-type jinx, Templar style, specifically a 'jelly legs.' Did you really need me to tell you that?"

"Not that type of analysis, Master Reeves. I'd like you to check it against the common aspects of an Assassin's magical signature."

To say this surprised the elderly Assassin would be an understatement. Thousands of possible scenarios passed through his head and hundreds of reasons made themselves known in the span of that instant, leaving him cognizant to say only one word: "What?"

"Master Altaïr left a witness at the mission in May, earlier this year. She's retained the knowledge of the wipe when no one else remembers him."

"Truly?" asked Reeves, running through a list in his head. It wasn't a long list, so it made his next statement come earlier than most would expect. "Only ninety-three people have been resistant to the wipe in varying degrees. Only a third of those actually remember everything."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that this witness of Altaïr's is either a follower of the Templars or something…_extraordinary_. I'll have to do some tests before I know for sure and they will take a lot of time."

"How long?"

"A month…maybe more if more filming comes up. It's also depending on whether or not others need the equipment. Analyzing magical signatures and comparing them is a _long_, time consuming process, especially since it doesn't work if the person has used the 'Turners."

"Thank you, Master Reeves."

"Thank me in a month," he replied with a smile on his face before he cut the video feed, leaving the novice to her thoughts.

She sighed, shaking her head as she went out of the former chessboard room. Master Reeves was one of the best research agents… and currently working on several movies.

_Supposedly, that "Matrix" movie he's talking about is going to be huge._

* * *

The Goblet of Fire sat in the middle of the Entrance Hall, surrounded by a smoky ring of blue light and a few students, around twenty or so. They remained behind the line, believing that Dumbledore's Age Line would stop them from getting too close. None wanted to test the headmaster's ability with magic, so a few feet remained between the students and the outermost edge of the ring.

Padraig and Alyssandra smirked as they leant back against the wall, watching the students who milled around – mostly Hogwarts students – and tried to speculate who would be the Champion of their school.

"How many do you think have tried to bypass the old man's screening?" inquired Padraig, nudging his other half with an elbow.

Alyssandra was silent for a moment, apparently thinking. "Four."

"How do you know?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity. "How could you possibly know?"

Alyssandra uncrossed her arms and tapped the wall with her right hand, the hand between the pair.

Padraig nearly jumped four metres in the air as a hood appeared from solid stone, an Assassin with three parallel black stripes running from peaked hood to coat tails stepping out of the wall as if he were walking through air rather than rock.

"Gabriel! What have I said about doing that!" yelled the shamrock marked Assassin, swinging a fist at the ex-thief, who merely stepped back into the wall, leaving Padraig's fist to bounce off it with a crack.

"Damn it! Why does he do that?" he hissed, tired of Gabriel's natural ability to phase his – and those of whomever he touched – molecules through any tangible object.

This led to the discovery of the ability to phase a part of his body through an opponent and then re-solidified his body, forcing the opponent's body apart to accommodate the intrusion.

Gabriel Silva, a native of Brazil, had been a world class thief before his induction into the Assassins. He had the misfortune of stealing a specific golden sphere from a Templar vault, which had the Templars placing an insanely large bounty on his head, over three and a half million dollars. This, along with his innate magical ability brought the thief to the Assassin's notice, who then offered him a place to stay, training, and the chance to get back at those who had tried to kill him.

Gabriel, who had spent four years on the run from Templar agents, was all too happy to join up. The Templars had messed with the wrong thief and his first act of vengeance was to clear out the first vault he had hit, four years ago, before moving on to other, more protected vaults.

Gabriel had stolen over nine _billion_ dollars from the Templars during his time amongst the Assassins. As all Assassins kept a percentage of what they stole, Gabriel was in the list of the top ten richest Assassins.

"You can do it too, my dear. He just does it instinctively."

"One of these days, I'm gonna seal him in a tomb!"

"Not likely, you red haired mick," said Gabriel, sticking his head out of the framework on the other side of Padraig's head. "You couldn't catch me if I stole your chair with you in it."

Padraig swelled up in outrage, preparing a scathing retort, but remained quiet at the sight of Alyssandra's raised eyebrow and the appearance of Altaïr appearing right next to her, between the dhampir and the ghost walker's disembodied head.

"Ah, Altaïr! Safety and peace, brother. What brings you here?" asked Gabriel, walking fully out of the wall, positioning himself furthest from Padraig, who was still glaring at the Assassin covertly under the edge of his hood. "Hiding from your little French tart?"

Altaïr shook his head, a slight half grimace, half grin on his face, as he pointed towards the other end of the hall. The many staircases of the castle converged at that point and he knew that his prey were on the way down as he spoke. "I'm here for the entertainment."

All three of the Assassins wore identical looks of surprise and confusion at the statement, looking at each other in bewilderment before following Altaïr's finger.

A trio of students hopped down the stairs, laughing amongst themselves about the pair of vials in the hands of two red haired teens. A boy with his hair in dreadlocks followed close behind, grinning in the same way as the other two thirds of the trio.

"Done it," One of the identical twins said, talking in hushed tones to their brother. Altaïr smirked as both Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger – both of whom had been watching the older students put in their names – looked up at their elders with looks of equal parts confusion and intrigue. "Just finished it."

"What is 'it,' Fred?" asked Ron slowly, a wary look in his eyes. Life with the twins had taught him to be alert at all times when they were around.

"The Aging Potion, dung brains," said the twin, tilting the little flask of potion between his fingers.

"Only a little bit each," said the other, rubbing his hands together with glee. He could already see the thousand galleon prize in his hands. "We only need to be a few months older, not a few years."

"We're going to split the thousand galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," said the boy behind them, grinning broadly beneath his whirling dreadlocks.

"I'm not sure this is going to work, you know," said Hermione warningly. All the Assassins in the corner agreed with her statement, each forming a grin as they analyzed the Age Line and the spells woven into it.

"I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of this," she said, looking at the Age Line with the proper amount of apprehension on her face. "He's smarter than us, you know?"

Padraig pulled his hood down further over his head while trying to hide his chuckle underneath a bout of coughing as the trio ignored Ms. Granger's words of wisdom. He was the not the only Assassin who shared his point of view, though the only to show any outward sign of it. "How bad is this gonna get?"

"Just watch," replied Altaïr, putting a hand on Padraig's shoulder to stop him from fidgeting. "It's about to happen."

"Ready?" Fred asked, practically quivering with excitement. "Bottoms up!"

All of the hall watched, fascinated, as both twins pulled a slip of parchment out of their pockets, bearing the words _Fred Weasley/George Weasley _— _Hogwarts_ respectively_. _With a show of linking arms, they downed the vials in one go, each showing identical looks of distaste at the sourness of the potion. After a moment of silence, probably to make sure the potion had time to take effect, they stepped forward over the line with the eyes of every single person in the hall upon them.

The crowd cheered as the line failed to react in the slightest way, a fact that made the twins yell and laugh as they danced around in the circled area. With a flourish of their arms, they simultaneously tossed their parchments at the mouth of the goblet.

Out of nowhere, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by a giant invisible hand. They landed painfully, rolling to a stop ten feet away from the Age Line on the cold stone floor. Before either of them could say a coherent word, both of them sprouted identical long white beards, almost rivaling that of their headmaster.

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other's beards, comparing the lengths and purity of color. George had the longest by an inch, but Fred's was a brighter white than his brother's.

"Your friend did warn you," said Altaïr in a deeply amused voice, causing everyone to turn and notice the four Assassins standing in the corner. He strode over and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. "Your headmaster is many things, but an idiot is not one of them… most of the time."

Both of the Weasley twins looked up at the Assassin in awe, who gave them a shove towards the staircases. "I suggest you both go up to your healer…Madam Pomfrey, wasn't it? She is already tending to two of your school, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little using alternate means. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours."

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter at the twin's predicament.

"Let that be a lesson to you all," Altaïr said as the rest of the Assassins walked into the Great Hall, turning half back to the crowd still clustered around the Goblet of Fire. "Trying to outwit someone only works when you're at least as smart."

The crowd broke up rather quickly under the weight of Altaïr's glare, scampering away as fast as they could while maintaining a semblance of normalcy. He allowed a small smirk to play across his face as a certain blonde crossed the hall, headed for the goblet.

* * *

Fleur Delacour stopped halfway through the motion of putting her own name into the blue flames of the goblet, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising. A quick look around showed nothing out of the ordinary… that is, until she looked at the door between the Entrance and Great Hall.

The red-and-white cloaked Altaïr stood there, framed by the veritable sea of black robed students sitting down for breakfast. He pulled at the edge of his hood, as if in greeting or salute, before he turned and walked into the Great Hall.

"Was that the Assassin you were asking Roger about?" asked Aimeé, coming up beside Fleur with her own scrap of parchment. "The one with a scar on his lips?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Fleur replied, keeping one eye on her friend and the other on the stylised hood. She tried the innocent look, trying to throw her friend off the trail.

"I know that innocent look you pulled on Roger last night," said Aimeé, her grin smug. She knew she had the upper hand, now that Fleur was off balance. "And I know when you're trying to avoid a subject. What's with you and that Altaïr guy?"

Fleur was silent, watching the group of Assassins at the table. Something, some strange feeling of recognition drew her gaze to their leader. "I'm not sure… the way he moves reminds me of someone I met a few months ago, but his face is not similar to the one I saw in May."

"And you think that whoever you met happened to be part of a group of mercenaries, whom claim either ancestry or the name of a group of semi mythical Assassins, whose magical prowess is beyond that of Merlin himself?" asked Aimeé, her tone growing more incredulous as she listed more facts. "That's who you think he is?"

"When you say it like that, you make it sound like I'm insane," said Fleur, glancing between her friend and the object of their discussion, who was eating his meal at an energetic pace , yet managed to eat every single bite without sparing a glance at it.

"Fleur, Fleur, Fleur… you are!"

* * *

"Has anyone seen Anaïs?" asked Padraig, looking around at the other Assassins entering the Great Hall along with the students of the three schools.

"Probably talking with Keanu again. She was talking to him last night, talking about some spell analysis she needed done," said Gabriel, slowly rising from the floor next to Padraig's ankle.

"Spell analysis? Novices know at least three hundred spells, mostly common. Anything more advanced would require one of the archivists."

"What was she looking at?" asked Altaïr, looking over the sea of black blue and burgundy.

"Not sure. We'll ask her later… though I wonder why she's not here," said Ronan, rolling his shoulder to ease the pain from a recent relocation. "The Goblet of Fire is about to pick the three champions."

"Perhaps someone traded patrol duty… or pulled rank to trade," said Alyssandra, lightly touching her left eye, which was quickly fading from blackish-purple to her normal pallor. "Was it necessary to hit me in the eye?"

"Was it necessary to kick me in the balls?" retorted Ronan, wincing at the memory.

"It was no holds barred!"

"It was a sparring match!"

"It was nothing personal!"

"You hit me three times!"

"Enough, the both of you," said Altaïr, waving the others to stand along the walls, where they would all have a clear view of the proceedings. "Settle your petty disputes later… and not in public."

* * *

The decorations of the Great Hall had changed greatly from this morning, where the light was provided by the rising sun projected from the enchanted ceiling.

Now, clouds of conjured bats swooped in loops around the hall, dodging between the hundreds of floating candles the lit the room to intensities of the midday sun. Pumpkins ranging in size from average to gargantuan sat in the corners in towers almost reaching the ceiling. Carved faces flickered eerily, lit by multi-colored candles sitting within them, leering at the amassed students with crooked, toothy grins.

_~Are these the typical Halloween decorations of Hogwarts?~_ asked Altaïr, amused. ~_Or do you think that they're trying to impress their guests?~_

_~Probably the latter,~_ said Alyssandra, the golden stripes on her uniform reflecting the light against the walls, making the two blood-red teardrops at her collar stand out that much more. _~This tournament is a huge international event. ~They're all trying to impress one another.~_

_~International prestige… bah! Why are we even here?~_ asked Jordan, her voice hot tempered and loud._ ~Templars are pulling operations all over the world and three and a half teams of the best Master- and Grand- class Assassins are patrolling a school full of teenagers!~_

_~Be. Calm.~_ said Altaïr, his voice low, calm, and at sub-zero temperatures, opening up a private line to Jordan and cutting everyone else out of it. _~We are here for a mission, assigned by Al Mualim himself, which could lead us to one of the biggest Templar caches in the last three decades!~_

_~You don't mean…~_

_~Yes. The Templar Academy… their training grounds, their prison, their libraries, their missions… everything we would need to wipe the order out.~_

_~I'm sorry… I d-didn't know…~_

_~I know your family was taken by the Templars. I know they were tortured in an attempt to find you and I know that you had to kill them when they were turned into Templar agents,~ _said Altaïr, looking right across the hall at her. His tone was sorrowful and sympathetic, knowing how much this hurt to bring up. _~Al Mualim gave me the choice of my team. I chose you because I knew you would be one of the best for this job. I know you want your revenge, but if we play this out, we'll have the chance at the Academy.~_

Jordan looked away, her eyes brimming with tears as the memories started to play back. She'd washed her hands with all sorts of soaps and – when that didn't work for her – various caustic substances in an attempt to wash the blood of her mother, father, and elder brother from her hands, nearly damaging them beyond all magical repair. It took twenty hours to heal her hands to make sure she could still move her fingers, even with the best healers working on her surgery.

_~I got the Templar's name…~_ he said, making her jerk her head back up to look at him. _~He's at the Academy. He's called Benjamin Kane, the Mind Breaker.~_

_~How did you figure that out?~ _Jordan asked, incredibly amazed. _~Of all the Templars I've interrogated, none of them told me anything about him. They didn't even know he existed.~_

_~You haven't taken down someone of your equivalent level of authority in the Templars. I took down one of the high level Knights. My missions are on a whole new level.~_

_~I'm a level ten, blacklist operative.~_

_~Level twenty, whitelist.~_

_~Never heard of it.~_

_~Never will.~_

Unbeknownst to Jordan, Altaïr released the comm. limits when she told him her operative level and everyone heard the entire exchange. Everyone laughed when Altaïr pulled his last line, causing Jordan to jump and look at all the Assassins around the hall all roared with laughter through their comms. Several of them had to lean against the walls they were laughing so hard.

_~What's whitelist?~_ Jacinta, her own tone confused.

_~Higher than blacklist… and that's all you need to know until you're asked to join.~_ replied Ronan.

_~You're one too, aren't you?~_

_~Yep.~_

_~Who else is one besides Altaïr and Ronan?~_

Raphael, Talal, Piotr, Padraig, and Gabriel all winked their robes, making them flash a bright blue glow only seen by those wearing the Assassin hoods. Out of all of them present in the hall, only Jacinta, Jordan, and Alyssandra

_~How are you all-~_

_~Quiet!~_ hissed Gabriel from his position near the entrance. _~Dumbledore has removed the Age Line he put up and is levitating the goblet into the Hall!~_

Everyone began to whisper as Dumbledore walked down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, his wand pointed at the slowly revolving and floating Goblet of Fire, which he placed in front of the staff table where everyone could see it.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" — he indicated the door behind the staff table — "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of multicolored semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluish-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting...a few people kept checking their watches...

"Any second," Lee Jordan whispered from two seats away from the Weasley twins, who were freshly clean shaven for dinner.

The flames inside the goblet turned a deep blood red. Sparks began to fly from it, as if there were a grinder hidden within it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air and a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped.

The first champion's name had been announced.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white from the deep red.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."

"No surprises there!" yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. The Assassins saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore, oddly duck-footed; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

"Bravo, Viktor!" boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. The Assassin closest to him had placed runes at each seating, which nearly blew out his eardrum as he yelled. "Knew you had it in you!

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons…" said Dumbledore. "-is Fleur Delacour!"

"Oh look, they're all disappointed," Hermione said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party.

'Disappointed' was a bit of an understatement, was a major thought among the students and most of the Assassins, who were watching all the Beauxbatons students. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. Most looked teary eyed, but most had a look of sadness on their faces, except Aimeé's, whose face was a mixture of happiness and sadness.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it in the air.

The Hogwarts champion next . . .

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

"No!" said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him but the Assassins with their enhanced hearing systems; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, slapping high-fives and shaking hands, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

"Excellent! Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —"

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out —

"Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad."

As one, every single head in the Great Hall turned to look at Altaïr, who had been leaning against a pillar. As he became aware that he was now the center of attention, he slowly shifted his weight back onto both feet and looked towards the three Headmasters of the school.

Headmaster Dumbledore merely looked confused, while the other two looked downright pissed. Altaïr shrugged, not knowing why this was happening.

Dumbledore nodded, almost imperceptibly, before Altaïr waved his hand in a 'regroup' hand sign. With a burst of magical power, all the Assassins flew over to their leader and began asking questions.

_~Altaïr? A Champion of the Triwizard Tournament? How did you manage that?~ _asked Talal, sounding quite impressed with his friend, breaking through the number of questions of the other Assassins who were all equally surprised at the change of events.. _~I was under the impression that we were here to hunt Templars, not compete in a tournament.~_

_~I didn't do anything. I was only near the cup this morning, when you three were with me.~_

_~That means someone else put your name in the goblet…~_ said Ronan, looking over his shoulder at the sea of students, who were all staring at the group and whispering amongst themselves.

_~Could it have been a student?~ _asked Jordan, her visor running through facial recognition to look for any students who didn't appear surprised while her recording equipment broke up the hiss of many whispers into distinct voices, scanning for abnormalities.

~_Not likely_,~growled out Piotr, disregarding the students chatter. The giant Russian turned his gaze towards the end of the hall, where the adults sat and stood. _~Focus on the teachers… they'd be the ones who would know how to confuse such a relic.~_

_~You think a Templar is here?~_ asked Ronan, fingering the hilt of his sword as he scanned one face after another, watching for any sign of recognition from the database.

_~I know one thing for sure,~_ said Altaïr, flexing his hands against the triggers for his hidden blades.

_~Whoever it is that has done this… is going to regret it.~_

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	15. Rule Breaker, Assassin, Champion

Altaïr glared beneath his hood, his patience tested as he set himself about looking over the entire room with a slow, deliberate sweep, cataloging every face that stared back within his database and noting the glow that surrounded them.

"How many here have had the Op. done?" he asked, watching the masses of white surround him, flagging each profile whose silhouette turned blue against his sight. _Potential allies are always so hard to come by_.

Flickers of red stood out against the masses as well, hard light clashing against the soft glow of blue and white that permeated the air. He marked them and their profiles, flagging their descriptions for all of the team to see and placing a mark on their skin, invisible to any other eyes than that of a hooded Assassin.

Eight acknowledgment lights glowed green on the hoods of those around him, also marks only visible to the Assassins. They all could see as he did, see the enemies arrayed against them sitting in the room, the wolves amongst the sheep that sat by their neighbors and watched the Assassins as if innocent.

Altaïr nodded as they searched the room, each person scanned added to the tally of occupants in the entire school. With twelve Assassins out of sixteen in the room, it was quite easy to see everyone within the room.

"There's a few missing. Five students out of three hundred twenty-two missing, two teachers out of Hogwarts staff, one of Beauxbatons and one of Durmstrang," said Padraig, reading off the counter. "Everyone agreed?"

All nodded, waved their hand, or made some signal to the affirmative as Dumbledore swept down the aisle, his eyes no longer twinkling as he looked the Assassin dead in the hood.

"What is the meaning of this, Altaïr?" asked the Headmaster, his voice low and tense. "Is this some sort of plan you and your group have cooked up?"

"We are as surprised as you are, Dumbledore," said Alyssandra, her own voice calm and steely.

"Then why is your name coming out of the Goblet of Fire?"

"I don't know, Headmaster, but we intend to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible," replied Altaïr, tightening one of the straps for the knife on his back and rolling his shoulder to adjust it to a more comfortable fit. "Now, if you excuse me, I have to join my fellow champions."

With a look at Alyssandra, he walked along the wall to the door off the Great Hall and entered silently, not even his clothes or the door making a sound.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered, aged canvas beneath glass peering at him with a modicum of intelligence. _I prefer regular _pictures, he thought as he saw the wizened witch who had flit out of the frame of her picture in the hall, through the ones next to them, and into the one which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear, talking about what she had seen.

Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. They all looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames in a relatively dark room.

Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. His head was bowed and arms folded, his eyes twitching underneath his lids as if in REM sleep or thinking intensely.

Cedric was standing with his arms folded behind his back, staring into the fire with a look of confidence mixed in equal parts with nervousness. He hid it well, but a slight twitch in his facial muscles gave him away.

Fleur Delacour was the model of calm, sitting daintily upon one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knees and hands placed lightly in her lap. She was happy, that much Altaïr could tell, at the turn of events, seeing how her lips curved upwards from time to time as the thought crossed her mind of winning the tournament.

Altaïr coughed behind his fist, bringing their attention to the newcomer in the room. Cedric jumped slightly at the disturbance, Krum merely opened his eyes, and Fleur watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Those eyes widened a great deal when she saw the uniform, especially when she saw it was Altaïr's distinctive red coloring across the white.

"What is it?" she said, her accent thicker than it was normally. _Playing it up for the unsuspecting_, he wondered, watching her stand with a toss of her hair. "Do they want us back in the Hall?"

She thought he had come to deliver a message. Altaïr just stood there, looking at the three champions with hints of a smirk on his face. He'd already felt the presence of Dumbledore, Crouch, Maxime, Bagman, and Karkaroff approaching the door, but only Bagman was at the door as the rest stopped to talk.

Everyone looked around him as there was a sound of scurrying feet behind him and Bagman entered the room, smiling as if this was the event of the year and he was the star.

He tried to take Altaïr by the arm and found himself kneeling on the floor with his arm in quite the awkward position, his wrist manipulated to an unnatural way of bending. A simple quarter turn of Altaïr had him head over heels to be sprawled on his back, looking up from the floor with a dazed and confused expression.

"How did I get here?" he asked, sitting up awkwardly with his arm cradled, sore from being flexed a bit too far.

"In the future, Bagman," said Altaïr, pulling him to his feet by his collar with a single arm. "I would advise you not to touch people without permission. Some take offense to it."

Without glancing at the teachers and officials who were coming through the door, Altaïr joined the champions at the fireplace, whispering to Bagman as he passed. "Haven't we learned that particular lesson two years ago?"

"Extraordinary!" he muttered while paling slightly, twisting his arm to remove the last vestiges of stiffness and pain. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen . . . lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. "May I introduce — incredible though it may seem — the _fourth _Triwizard champion?"

Viktor Krum straightened up at this, slightly alarmed. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Altaïr, noting the way he held himself. He'd heard the chattering of the students at the Slytherin table and had heard the legends of Assassins whose abilities Altaïr and his get claimed. _If the legends and myths are true, rather than fantasy as most assume, my chances of winning are getting very small…_

Cedric looked nonplussed, knowing he must be out of his league with someone like Altaïr. He looked from Bagman to the white cloaked Assassin and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said.

Fleur's smile dropped away at that particular comment. An Assassin in the tournament was going to be a large problem. She put up a smile in the millisecond afterwards and said, "Oh, very funny joke, Mr. Bagman."

"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Altaïr's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

Krum's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned.

"But evidently there has been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. "He cannot compete. He is not a student of any of the competing schools."

"Well . . . it is amazing," said Bagman, watching the smirking Assassin out of the corner of his eye. "Despite the fact that he is not a student of any of the schools, he has to compete, seeing as his name's come out of the goblet . . . I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage. . . . It's down in the rules, you're obliged . . . Altaïr will just have to do the best he —"

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. Altaïr heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor McGonagall closed the door.

"_Madame Maxime_!" said Fleur in French, striding over to her headmistress with an almost outrage look on her face. "_They are saying that this Assassin is to compete also!_"

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled in apparent outrage.

"What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" she said imperiously, glaring at the hooded individual by the fireplace. "I was not aware that your security was participating in the tournament."

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "_Two _Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions — or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

He gave a short and nasty laugh which ended abruptly as he caught the Assassin's shadow filled hood swivel to face his direction. The raising of the tiny hairs on the back of his neck told him right now was a good time to shut up.

"_C'est impossible,_" said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur's shoulder. "Hogwarts cannot have two champions. It is most unjust."

"We were under the impression that your so called Assassins were merely guards rather than participants, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever and his tone was quieter, trying not to garner any more attention than he already had. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

"It's no one's fault but the Assassin's, Karkaroff," said Snape softly. His black eyes were alight with interest. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for the actions of one man."

"That man is standing right here, Potions Master."

"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore, smiling, and Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted through his curtain of greasy black hair, a side effect of working with potions all day.

Professor Dumbledore was now looking at where Altaïr's eyes would be if the not for the shadows. The Assassin looked right back at him, already discerning the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles as curiosity mixed with amazement with a dash of apprehension.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Altaïr?" he asked calmly.

"No," said Altaïr, shaking his head. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely, particularly Fleur, still trying to make out features beneath the shadows.

"Did you ask any of your team or any of the students to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" said Professor Dumbledore.

"No," replied Altaïr in the same deadpan way of his. "The Assassins have no need to participate in this tournament."

"Ah, but of course he is lying!" cried Madame Maxime, her voice rising as her outrage grew.

Snape was now shaking his head. He'd spoken with a few of the Assassins during their time at Hogwarts, and he doubted he could find a more truthful set of individuals. They either answered the question truthfully to the best of their ability or they claimed it was against their code to relay that information to outsiders. A man of rules himself, Snape respected them.

"He would not have crossed the Age Line," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "I am sure we are all agreed on that?"

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as did everyone else

"Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half-darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

"I insist on this Assassin being removed from the competition," said Karkaroff, his unctuous tone of voice gone. His strained smile also disappeared, leaving a very ugly across his features. "He is an adult with extensive magical training. He has too much of an advantage."

"It doesn't work like that," said Bagman, trying to be placating to the increasingly angry Russian. "He's already been chosen as a Champion and he cannot leave until the tournament is over. He has to compete or risk losing his magic!"

Everyone looked over at the Assassin, who had suddenly begun coughing into his hand. At their inquiring looks – and Dumbledore's offer of a spell to remove whatever was obstructing his airway – Altaïr waved a hand at them, gesturing them to continue talking and ignore him. His coughing fit elapsed soon after that, though his shoulders seemed to tremble every few seconds.

"He'll be free to leave at the conclusion of the tournament. Next tournament –"

"— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door, Altaïr saying the same thing from the other side of the room. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud _clunk._ Altaïr moved aside for him, giving a slight nod in greeting

"Convenient?" said Karkaroff. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

Everyone could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into fists and were trembling minutely.

"Don't you?" said Moody quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put the Assassin's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone wished to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple!" said Madame Maxime.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff, bowing to her.

"I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic _and _the

International Confederation of Wizards —"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Altaïr," growled Moody,

"but . . . funny thing . . . I don't hear _him _saying a word. . . ."

"Why should he complain?" burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. "He has the chance to compete, hasn't he? We have all been hoping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! The honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — this is a chance many would die for!"

"Maybe someone's hoping Altaïr _is _going to die for it," said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "Moody, old man . . . what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," said Karkaroff loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"Imagining things, am I?" growled Moody. "Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the name in that goblet. . . ."

"Ah, what evidence is there of that?" asked Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands, her face looking perplexed. Altaïr decided it was not the best look on her.

"Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!" said Moody. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament… I'm guessing they submitted Altaïr's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…"

"You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody," said Karkaroff coldly, "and a very ingenious theory it is — though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you'll understand if we don't take you entirely seriously…"

"There are those who'll turn innocent occasions to their advantage," Moody retorted in a menacing voice. "It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff — as you ought to remember. . . ."

"Alastor!" said Dumbledore warningly. Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction — Karkaroff's face was a blotchy red.

"And yet he was proven right, wasn't he, Karkaroff?" asked Altaïr, shocking everyone who had forgotten about him standing there. "The egg had been transfigured into a carriage clock and would have reverted back to an egg around midnight and hatched in the early morning had he not smashed it."

The amount of smug satisfaction in Moody's scarred face nearly threw the old Headmaster into a fit.

"How this situation arose, we do not know," said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Master Altaïr has been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, he will do. . . ."

"Ah, but Dumbledore —"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be _delighted_ to hear it."

Altaïr could hear the snark in the man's voice and couldn't help but grin at the gentleman with half-moon glasses.

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one either. Karkaroff looked livid; Bagman, however, looked rather excited.

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. "Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes . . . the first task . . ."

He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Altaïr thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.

"The first task is designed to test your daring," he told Altaïr, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor. "So we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard . . . very important. . . .

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

"The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests, not that it will be a problem for Mr. Altaïr."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I've left young Weatherby in charge…Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…"

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" said Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff — Madame Maxime — a nightcap?" said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. They were talking fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall, complaining about the Assassin's arrogance in entering the tournament. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

"Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed," said Dumbledore with a kindly smile on his face. "I am sure Hufflepuff is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise."

Cedric left with a nod at the Headmaster and a polite goodbye to Crouch and Bagman, slipping out the door with a smile on his face. From the sound of the cheers from beyond the door, Cedric's reappearance was well received.

"Mr. Crouch," said Altair as he walked over and extended a hand. "We haven't been introduced. I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Pleasure to meet you."

Crouch merely stared at the hand, turned on his heel and left, saying "I don't shake hand with hired thugs" before he left. Altaïr smiled thinly beneath his hood, sending a short note to another Master via his HUD. _I think Mr. Crouch needs watching._

"I apologize for his rudeness, Master Altaïr," said Bagman, extending his own hand. "He's not usually like this."

"Not at all, Mr. Bagman," replied Altaïr, grasping the ex-quidditch player's hand. "Everyone has their off days. I merely caught him on his."

"Would you care to join me for a nightcap?"

"I apologize, but I must speak with my team regarding recent events. You know how it is." Altair smiled widely, seeing the man outlined in blue against his sight. _He might be useful, given the right push._

"Of course, of course. I'll see you around the castle, then?"

"Oh, I guarantee it."

With a smile of his own to match the Assassin's, Bagman wandered back out into the Great Hall.

"Headmaster, I think we have a breach in our security," deadpanned Altaïr, looking over at the most powerful wizard in Magical Europe.

"Really? Boy, this is a catastrophe!" growled Moody from his corner, his magical eye spinning in all directions while his other remained focused on the hood's shadows. "How did someone get close enough to the goblet while your men were on watch?"

"How indeed… Altaïr, have you any suspicions on how this could have occurred?" asked Dumbledore, pulling a few foil wrapped candies from his pocket. He offered one to both of them, a hint of lemon emanating from them. "Lemon drop?"

Moody waved it away while Altaïr accepted the proffered candy with a quiet "thank you."

"I have several theories and all are being investigated as we speak, but they will take a little time to turn up anything," said Altaïr, popping the candy into his mouth. "We will keep you apprised of any details of the investigation."

"Thank you," said Dumbledore. "Alastor, would you work with the Assassin if he asks for your help?"

Moody let out an exasperated growl as he shoved himself off the mantle and held out his hand to Altaïr. "I hate working with amateurs. You screw with me, achoo, and I will destroy you."

"That's 'Altaïr,' Mad-Eye," returned the Assassin in the same tone of voice as he grasped Moody's hand, taking it to the point of breaking in an instant. At Moody's wince, Altaïr twisted his hand so Moody sank to his knees, his wooden leg sliding across the stone with an unnerving screech, glaring up at a pair of green specks that suddenly appeared in the blackness.

"I highly doubt any of you wizards can take an Assassin in a fair fight, let alone an unfair one, so let me make this clear," said Altaïr, leaning down to whisper in Moody`s ear, his voice incredibly calm. Moody swore he could feel the temperature dropping. Show some respect, or I'll see how many ways I can sustain a man on the brink of death."

With that said, Altaïr pulled the aged auror to his feet and watched him leave. _He's playing his part of this well enough_, thought Altaïr, watching him limp off.

_~Master Altaïr! Master Altaïr!~_

_~What is it?~ _asked the Assassin, knowing something was wrong by the tone of voice. _~What's wrong?~_

_~We found Anaïs.~_

_~Is there a problem?~_

_~There's a lot of blood, sir.~_

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**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	16. An Assassin, an Imposter, and an Apple

**As I have two open spaces left for Assassins, the person or persons who adds the 650th and 670th reviews will be allowed to submit a character bio for their own Assassin to be featured in-story.**

**I apologize for the lack of update. RL has been problematic.**

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_~What do you mean 'there's a lot of blood?'~ _asked Altaïr, hurtling through the door at a full out run, leaping across tables and scattering plates in his wake, Dumbledore's repeated questions floating. One of the Durmstrang lot cursed him as he passed, saying that his mother had done something questionable with a horse… until he caught a golden plate across the face.

By the time anyone realized what had happened, Altaïr was up three flights of stairs, bouncing off the spaces between pictures when the staircases didn't line up, much to their annoyance. _~You've transported her to the infirmary?~_

_~Yes.~_ replied Padraig, his voice strained from sustained healing magic. _~Get here quickly, she's still losing blood.~_

"Where's Jordan?" yelled Alyssandra as she nearly kicked the doors off, screaming down the hall. As Altaïr skidded around the corner – taking to the wall when he ran out of floor to run on – the dhampir almost sighed in relief. "Get in here quick!"

"What's the damage?" asked Altaïr, dropping his bracers and throwing off the white and red over robe, a sterilization charm sweeping over his hands as his sleeves fell to the floor. He stopped short, shocked at what he saw before him.

He wasn't prepared for the brutality. He'd seen worse on the number of battlefields he'd been on, but it wasn't the same. This was a simple mission, not an active war zone with Templars around every corner.

The white sheets of the ward's bed were red, permanently stained and dripping blood all over the floor. The other novice of the group had set up an IV, trying to force blood back into her system fast enough so that she doesn't bleed out before they could heal her.

She had been stripped of her uniform, her novice-grade armor vanished instead of removed, having done little to stop her attacker's spells. Her torso was a mass of torn skin, exposed muscle, and deep gouges and pits, all covered in blood. Her skin, whatever there was that wasn't covered in blood, was an ashen grey, a color at odds with her normal skin tone.

"Seven holes in her chest, probably piercers, three of them to her lungs. Cutter to her right shoulder, bottom of it nicked the top of her right lung. Padraig's holding back the blood so she doesn't drown and trying to seal and heal as fast as he can. A couple of bone breaker to her pelvis, some shards might've hit her femoral artery. Padraig's holding the blood back until Jordan gets here. She's on her way and she can move those. And we've got several curses that are limiting our ability to heal," said Alyssandra, ticking off the injuries as she raised the fingers on one hand while adding her own stream of magic to counter the curses. "I'm handling those."

Altaïr could see several curses, all rather dangerous to someone's health. Three curses to limit blood coagulation, two made to limit foreign medical magic and a handful more made to keep her body in the condition it was in now.

Broken. Bloody.

"Jordan's got the bone shards, Padraig's got the damage to the lungs, and you've got the curses…" Altaïr trailed off, his face becoming very pale. "Please don't tell me you need me for that…"

Alyssandra nodded slowly, making Altaïr's eyes widen in horror. "She's got damage to her spine… even with your help it might already be too late. She… she…"

"Alyssandra!" Altaïr shouted, making her jump. His voice went very low, almost hopeful. Hopeful that he wasn't needed for what he suspected they needed him for. "Just. Tell. Me."

"She might not walk again."

Altaïr growled as he started running diagnostics through his HUD. Higher ranked – mostly Greater and above – Assassins had their bodies hardened through training and various magical rituals. A prodigy novice might have been started on the basest of rituals, but those would barely more than novice armor alone.

Madam Pomfrey opened the door a crack, her questioning tone filling the still air. "Assassins? Do you need any he –"

The door slammed shut with enough force to crack the frame, forced shut by a pair of telekinetic waves from both Master Assassins. Altaïr didn't even flinch when he heard Pomfrey squawk in surprise as she knocked her head on the heavy oak door, his attention fully on the task at hand.

"Alright," said Altaïr, drawing one of his throwing knives. After four quick slashes across his palm, one around to the back of his wrist and up his forearm, he said, "Flip her over, carefully. Immobilization spells, now."

Alyssandra ceased the flow of magic in one hand and simultaneously cast both a stasis and a levitation spell, locking Anaïs' body and rotating her in midair, keeping her within reach of the other Assassins.

"Okay," breathed Altair, slowing his heartbeat down so that an errant twitch at the wrong moment wouldn't finish the job rather than fix it. Healing expertise of one aspect of the human body was a requirement of becoming a Master class Assassin and he was one of several specialized in the nervous system, but nothing made his job any easier to concentrate when working on spinal injuries. "Let's get started."

* * *

"They sealed off the wing, Headmaster," said Pomfrey from her seated position on the floor next to the door as Dumbledore came walking up. "I tried every spell I know, but nothing's able to open the door."

"What do you mean?" asked Dumbledore, flicking his hand at the door. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, he could control every door, window and room he knew of in Hogwarts. "It's open."

"No, it's not." Pomfrey elbowed the door, which did not move an inch.

Puzzled, the Headmaster walked up to the door…

And ran right into it, smashing into it rather than burst through the double doors in a dramatic fashion as he intended. He reeled back, clutching at his nose and reaching for the cracked remnants of his horn-rimmed, half-moon spectacles. "I… don't understand."

"Nor do I, but I can control the doors of the hospital wing as well, but I tried the same things and it didn't work for me."

"Nor will it, until we are finished with it," said Gabriel, sticking his head through the door whilst giving the older wizard a glare, having heard Dumbledore crash into the door. Not only was Dumbledore startled by the fact that the Assassins could walk through walls, but the sight of an un-hooded Assassin was a new experience for him. "Our sister has been savaged to a point we've only seen on the battlefields and she is in the middle of several different operations."

Struck dumb, Dumbledore could only gape at the Assassin.

"So… piss off!" With that, Gabriel pulled his head back through the door, leaving two incredibly surprised magicals staring at the door.

"Well…um… I'm going to go… somewhere,,, else," said Dumbledore, moving jerkily away. "Excuse me."

Pomfrey looked between the door and the retreating Headmaster, confused.

"How do they do that?"

* * *

"Gabriel! Get my extra kit out of my shoulder harness! I need more calcium phosphate."

"You have three seals up here!"

"Top right, idiot. Hurry up, you've done this before!"

After a few fruitless tugs, Gabriel gave up, drew his knife and sliced the entire spaulder, throwing knives sheaths and killing knife sheath harness from Altaïr's shoulders. At Altaïr's side glance, he shrugged and pulled the extra supply kit from the seal. "Why are you using your kit when you could just pull it out of the air?"

"Transmuting takes a lot of energy to do than molding does," growled Altaïr, rummaging through the pack with one hand without sparing it a glance. "And I don't squander magic when I have what I need at hand."

Gabriel stepped back out of arms reach as Altaïr's eyes started glowing and the small piece of phosphate began to change its form, watching the whole transformation from solid brick to dust cloud with a raised eyebrow.

"It's always impressive to see you work this crap, you know?" asked Gabriel, leaning against the closest bed so that he was still close enough to immediately offer aid should the need arise.

"By 'crap,' you mean by rebuilding an obliterated vertebrae and the nerves to go along with it?" asked Altaïr, remaining focused on the task at hand.

"You know, when you say it like that, it makes me look like I'm an idiot."

"If the shoe fits…" muttered Altaïr as he directed the dust cloud into the wound, part of his magic focused on forming artificial veins for the blood to flow through rather than ooze out of the wounds. The other part of his magic was centered on recreating the fourth lumbar vertebra from memory. "Now, be quiet please."

Gabriel raised his hands in supplication, keeping an eye on the mass of partially healed scar tissue that made a gruesome pattern on their comrade's skin. British healing magic was quick, but fairly useless in the grand scheme of things, power consuming and – with a few small exceptions – complex as hell. It could heal a scratch in seconds, yes, but wouldn't do much for the damage found on a battlefield or in a covert operation that went south. It healed the damage, but the healing wasn't complete. It needed multiple healings or lots of time to heal completely.

The Assassin way was easier. With the Assassins, they learned to channel magic into the healing the right way. It would take a bit longer to heal a scratch, about five seconds to the British single second, but nothing beat it for heavy duty healing.

Gabriel had watched Altaïr reattach a fellow Assassin's arm in half an hour. The healing was enough that the previously wounded Assassin went on to kill the Templar commander their company had been fighting.

What the British would take for miracles, Assassins could do on a daily basis.

* * *

Pomfrey was rather annoyed when the doors of the infirmary finally cracked open, eight hours after they had been abruptly slammed in her face.

"What gives you the right to barge in here and kick me out of my infirmary?" she yelled at the emerging Assassins, looking directly at the red streaked Assassin she knew to be the leader.

The look directed at her from beneath the hood was nearly corporeal, making her shy back. Altaïr stopped in front of her while the rest carried on down the hall.

"Our novice has been badly injured. We've healed her as best we could, but she's still in a coma due to the sheer amount of damage." Pomfrey stepped back as he waved a finger under her nose. "You will not interfere with any of the Assassins who enter to check on her or render medical attention to her. You will not touch her or any of the others who are in the infirmary. Am I understood?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped as the index finger currently under her nose began to glow a threatening red, accompanied by the feeling of intense heat.

"Am. I. Understood?" repeated Altaïr, an aura of cold fury flowing off of him that usually made anyone he was ordering around do _exactly_ what he told them to.

The wizened witch nodded quickly, shaking in her shoes. She had been meaning to rain down fury upon the Assassin leader, but was totally unprepared to feel that much contained rage directed at her.

"Good."

* * *

"Was it necessary to give her that much of a fright?" asked Alyssandra, leaning against the corner that Altaïr was stalking around. She knew that look on his face... one that was both fun and terrifying at the same time.

The one he wore when he knew something and was about to drive six inch nails through that particular something.

"What are your orders, brother?" she asked, running a thumb over the razor points of her eyeteeth. It was a nasty little habit that accompanied that particular walk and look about Altaïr; usually meant blood was to be flowing within hours.

"Get everyone on the Redlist, sister, and put them in the holding cells we have set up. I'll be there in a moment."

Alyssandra tossed him a two-fingered salute and pushed off the wall, already in motion before he was turning the next corner. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to ask my contact if he's seen anything," he replied from around the corner. "I'll be there in a moment."

Alyssandra sighed as she walked away from where Altaïr was going, pulling the list up on her visor. Four names were on the list, so it wouldn't take them long to assemble them. To get them to crack was another matter.

_~Padraig, Gabriel, Raphael, Piotr, get the rest and take those on the list to the holding cells. Tell Juno that Anaïs is going to make it and she's to relieve Jacinta in two minutes so she can help out with the collars.~_

_~HUA, sister,~_ said Raphael's voice, immediately followed by the acceptances of the other three named Assassins.

_~And tell Bishop to get off his tower and back to the barracks.~_

_~I'm on the channel, too. What do you want?~ _he asked, his voice airy. Alyssandra noted the POV icon on her HUD was showing crosshairs on the western grounds, so she assumed he was on top of the Gryffindor

_~Alyssandra's orders carry the same weight as Altaïr's.~ _said Padraig, hearing his fellow Grand Assassin's dismissive tone. _~When she says jump, you jump.~_

_~Whatever you say, necrophiliac.~_

Alyssandra sighed as Padraig opened a private channel with her. _~Why did Altaïr bring him along? He hates everything and everyone and believes in a religion we disproved long ago. He's called Bishop for a reason.~_

_~He's good at what he does and he's hurting because he lost his family to the Templar's vampire squad. He knows I'm not dead and he's just projecting his anger onto others. He'll come around once he's had his revenge.~_

_~I still don't _like him," said Padraig, walking through the wall at her right. "He's a bastard."

"Your parents weren't married, so…" started Alyssandra, smiling already as she noted the smirk on his lips, "…by definition, you're a bastard as well."

"Have I mentioned that I loved you today?"

"Yes, but I can always hear it again." She smiled as her tall Irishman leant down for a kiss.

* * *

He stalked down the hall of the second floor, the office and the classroom it was behind was within a few seconds at his current pace. Each step was measured, precise in length and timing to his rhythm.

Had to be, or else the entirety of his magic would've been released upon everything within range of his sight. He'd destroyed an entire wing of an Assassin compound in Northern Canada. He'd rebuilt it before he left, of course, but whenever he went there, they'd clear out of that particular wing. Just in case, they said.

Some things were never lived down.

The door flew open of its own accord before his hand could grasp the handle. Altaïr grimaced at his lapse in control, both for letting loose his magic and alerting the object of his rage. The smack of the door handle against the wall reverberated through the empty classroom, something he was quick to snatch at with his magic, fruitless as the action was. Magic can only do so much, even Assassin brand.

He paused at the threshold, his enhanced hearing searching for any sign of movement that would indicate someone hearing his entrance, loud as it was. Hearing nothing emanating from the adjoining room, Altaïr assumed that either his suspect was unaware of his presence or he'd stopped the sound waves from leaving his room, either by magical or normal means.

The stairs had been stone, before Moody had come to Hogwarts, but were now made of wood, wood that Altaïr was sure that the over-zealous, paranoid retiree had made them extra squeaky, probably to freak out any of the students who got called into his office. Knowing Moody's tendencies, it was partly just for kicks.

A wave of the Assassin's hand had the steps back to stone. Transmutation took more energy out of a mage, but it also removed any spells or curses that would have been laid into the object in its natural state. It was safer to transmute rather than muddle through any number of traps that could have been laid.

As with all Assassin robes, silence is spelled into the very fabric of their uniforms, so Altaïr climbed the steps with nary a sound, both from experience and upgraded spellwork. Every diagnostic program he had was running across his HUD, including his trusty Mark I Eyeball and his Eagle Vision.

With a careful hand, he slowly turned the door handle and pushed the door open wide enough to put a finger through, which transferred a live image of the room to his visor.

Moody was sitting by the fireplace, a cup of some steaming liquid in his hands, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the music coming from the antiquated wizard wireless system. The fireplace was burning low; very little more than embers were left, leaving the room dimly lit. His clawed prosthetic was leaning against the jamb, casting a distorted shadow on the wall. The electric blue eye of his was sitting on a table, in a bowl so that its constant spinning didn't roll itself off the table and onto the floor.

_His eye doesn't send him an image unless it's in his head… he's vulnerable for now_, thought the Assassin, zooming in on the rest of the room. _Can't see his wand… probably still on his person. Moody's no idiot, so he's got it somewhere._

He eased the door open enough to slip inside, shutting the door with a click that had Moody whirling around with wand in hand. An ice blue glow emanated from the tip, intense enough to brighten the entire room and nearly blind the Assassin if not for his hood.

"Assassin," growled Moody, keeping his wand aimed at the shadows under the cowl while he blindly reached out for his erratic eyeball. With a squelch of flesh on glass, he popped the eye back into his head and focused on the threat.

"Auror," was Altaïr's reply, his hand held up with an identical ice blue star burning in the palm. "We have business to discuss."

"Yes, we do indeed."

With that out of the way, they both dropped their hands and extinguished the spell's light. Moody grabbed his gnarled walking stick and hopped his way to the door, reaching with the other hand to grasp Altaïr's hand in the Roman handshake.

"Fix that faulty spring in your left arm yet?" he asked, his blue eye spinning down to focus on the other bracer and its hidden blade, looking through the metal frame to the components within. "Last time we fought, it jammed halfway out, didn't it?"

"If it hadn't, I'd have taken your eye once again," replied Altaïr, triggering the other hidden blade to show Moody all was operational. Moody's real eye followed the blade's flash in the dim light as it rasped metal on metal.

"What brings the _famed_ Altaïr to my office this Hallows' Eve?" the retired auror sneered with a grin that twisted his scarred features into something you would see in a horror movie.

"My student was attacked, almost killed. Her wounds rivaled that which I saw on the battlefields against the Templars."

"Yes, yes, yes… Anaïs, wasn't it? Very nice girl, had tea with me a few days ago," mused Moody, hopping his way back to his chair by the fire. "Sharp as a tack, too, though not as knowledgeable as you or the others of your group."

"She's barely more than a novice, so it would be expected that she lacks the experiences that we do."

"True."

"Did you notice anything amiss, seeing how you see all?"

Moody barked out a laugh at that. "There are limits to this eye of mine, as you know well. I haven't been in range of the cup today."

* * *

**September 17**

Altaïr walked into the DADA classroom as the bell rang, stepping deftly between students who were not aware of his presence until he was already past him. Whispers sprang up as he stopped at the desk, leaning over it to look Moody in the eye.

"Well, well, well. What brings the Master Assassin to my humble classroom?" asked Moody with a hint of mockery in his tone.

"I wish to speak privately, if we could." The Assassin tilted his head towards the stone staircase that led to the professor's office. "Now."

"I don't like your tone, _boy_," growled Moody, standing up to glare at Altaïr while on the same level.

"I don't like yours, _relic_," replied Altaïr, almost nonchalant.

Moody's eye swiveled to look at Altaïr and allowed his lips to quiver upwards for an instant before he started shouting. Altaïr shared the same look as he activated the dampening functions of his hood.

Moody could get close to deafening.

"What are you lot still doing here?" Altaïr's face was the epitome of calm as he threw up a minor shield in front of his face to protect himself from flying spittle. He didn't have to turn, he only listened to the students fall over themselves in their hurry to leave, their fear of both the Assassin and the auror sending them flying down the corridor as fast as their legs could carry them.

Both glared at each other for another moment before collapsing in laughter, leaning on the desk to keep themselves from falling to the floor.

"Did you see their faces?" asked Moody, limping over to the stairs with a grunt. "Scared a few years out of them, I did!"

"Yeah, yeah. You and your need to instill fear for the fun of it."

"You cannot deny that sending those kids running for the hills was not hilarious."

"I concede that particular point. Be careful, or you'll send one of them into hysterics and you'll get a lecture from Gandalf."

"Ah, there's that Tolkien loving idiot I know well," laughed Moody as he clambered up the steps and threw his shoulder into the door.

"How was your summer?" asked Altaïr as he followed Mad-Eye into his office and conjured a pair of glass cups. When Moody turned around from rummaging through a cupboard, Altaïr had already sat himself by the desk and placed the glasses with reach. "Heard your place was attacked near the end."

"My array of wards picked up something going through my garbage," he said, hobbling over with a bottle of Fire-whiskey in his empty hand. With a sigh, he dropped into his seat, placed the bottle on the table and pushed at harness on his leg, removing it entirely. With a wave of his wand, he applied a healing charm to the stump. "Might've been an animal, maybe a person... didn't see it clearly."

Moody's face was stone, which told the Assassin that he wasn't lying. He knew most of his facial tics, having been business partners for a long time. Fighting him about seventy times also added to his knowledge.

Which is why something was making him feel odd. Moody hadn't put on his leg after healing the aches and pains, which violated his major rule. 'Constant Vigilance' had him putting himself at the point of greatest advantage in any situation, just in case things became violent. Without his prosthetic leg back on, his mobility was extremely limited.

_Moody would know that_, thought Altaïr as he surreptitiously activated one of his rune arrays. _Something is very wrong here._

"December 25, 1992, Ministry Christmas Party," growled Altaïr as his HUD displayed cycled to match his new array loadout. "What was the name of the girl I left with?"

"Ah, you still don't trust easily, do you?" Moody smiled at the question. "Very well, I'll indulge you… her name was Penelope Edwards. Blonde, 5'4" to your 6' that night, wore a green dress with only one shoulder."

There were two answers to the passphrase. Moody had just given the wrong one, the one that Altaïr and the real Moody had created to be their alert code, should an imposter ever try a stunt like this.

Even under duress, Moody could reveal one passcode and screw his impersonator's façade with a single sentence. Unfortunately for most, no one knew the correct answer, besides Altaïr and the true Moody.

Just then, Altaïr's recog system kicked in, telling him what he already knew.

There are many things that are unknown to almost all of the Assassins of the Order about the abilities of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, not including his personal doctor, Al Mualim and a few trusted members of the Master's advisers.

One particular talent of his stemmed from his unusual reaction to the rune array process, which basically boiled down to absorbing the runes and making what would normally be a temporary change a semi-permanent one, albeit at a extremely smaller amount. As he absorbed the runes effects, only a remnant of the runes power remained within his systems permanently. Each time he did an absorption, the trace of the new rune added itself to the remnants of the last one.

Due to that particular talent, Muyassar had begun placing new runes onto Altaïr, to test the limits of what he could do. Detection, scanning, compression, storage, and various others had been added to the normal array that was applied every two weeks, the average time it took for an entire rune array to be totally absorbed.

His favorite skill he acquired from the process was reading magical signatures. Changing your face, your height, your hair were all simple things to do, especially with Assassin brand magic, but you couldn't change what your magic feels like.

Like fingerprints, each person's magical signature was unique… and Altaïr could tell the difference. Moody was not Moody.

* * *

**October 31**

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Altaïr?" asked Moody, picking up his tea and inhaling the steam through his ruined nose. "I'll keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"Nothing more, Mad-Eye." Altaïr cracked open the door as if to leave, but paused on the threshold. He spun around, leveling a wand and a Berretta 92FS at the auror, who dropped tea all over his lap in his haste to draw his own weapon.

To Altaïr's surprise, the auror also pulled a gun from within his jacket. _Colt M1911? What's an auror doing with a mundane weapon?_

"So… you've found me out," said Moody, his voice smooth and low, different from the growl he'd been using before. "It was hell, keeping a head of you and the rest of your damned Assassins."

Altaïr chuckled as he flipped a thumb over one of the several small runes carved into the handle of his pistol. It glowed in dark green trails of minuscule runes lighting up all over the barrel, grip and trigger of the handgun, making it gleam all the more deadly in the darkness of the room.

"Oh, that's new." Moody smiled as he pulled back the hammer with a quiet click. Both the barrel and his wand tip flared a deep orange in response. "We've been trying to reverse that bit of magic since we captured Shanghai."

"I told myself that I'd let you remain as you were, untouched, as long as you would leave me and mine alone…" said Altaïr, earning a tilted questioning look from the imposter. "But it seems you've abused your freedom, nearly killed my student, and drawn far more attention to us than we ever intended."

"And when did the _Master Assassin_ figure out that I was not who I said I was?"

"September twenty-first, when I came to your office."

He looked confused, running through the events of a day a month ago with a fine comb. "We knew Moody was working with you… he gave me the passcode you use!"

Altaïr chuckled darkly, the green on his weapons intensifying. "You Templars think you're so smart. Never occurred to you that there may be more than one answer to the same question?"

The Templar looked thoughtful for a moment before throwing his head back, a bark of laughter escaping him. "Well done, you son of a bitch. I asked him the code phrase for meeting with you. Never asked if it were the right one."

* * *

He had begun to move as he spoke, rolling behind the desk as he shed his disguise and resumed his more natural form. Reaching overhead, he fired his gun blindly in the direction of where he last saw the Assassin.

_Shit, shit, _shit, he thought as he dropped a magazine to the floor, inserted a fresh one and chambered a round. He was extremely outmatched, owing to the disorientation he felt after shifting his body back to normal and the lack of his Templar mask, which would be showing him a lot more information about his opponent.

Like an idiot, he'd kept it locked in the trunk, in the compartment before the original Moody. _Damn it, Seth, be more prepared next time_, he thought to himself as he started firing at the sound of a footstep near the corner of the office.

After a second magazine was emptied and a third loaded, he allowed himself an instant to ascertain the location of his pursuer, stretching out with magical tendrils to test the area.

He didn't expect to find the Assassin standing directly behind him, pistol trained on his head.

He leapt to his feet, pistol coming around to bear when it happened.

* * *

Faster than he could react, Altaïr dropped the barrel of his pistol and squeezed the trigger twice, sending two magically enhanced rounds through his thigh and knee.

As the imposter started to fall, his injured leg collapsing under him, a second double tap emerged from the Assassin's barrel, destroying the piece of bone connecting the ball of the humerus to the rest of it in his left arm and the slender piece of wood clutched in his right hand.

By the time the Templar hit the floor, he'd been shot six times, hit by three bludgeoner curses to major joints, disarmed by both bullet and spell, and tied up in a way that put the most strain on his injuries. The Assassin stood over him, red hot barrel pressed to his temple with a continued hiss as the metal burnt a ring into his head.

"I am no simple Assassin, Templar," said Altaïr, leaning down to put his face an inch from his enemy's. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

He shifted his wand back into his arm sheath and reached to his belt.

When the Templar saw what the Assassin held in his hand, his eyes widened in greed, astonishment...

And _fear_.

He smiled as the Templar began to struggle violently, trying to worm himself away from the golden orb in his hand.

"I am _the_ Assassin and _this_ is the _Apple_."

* * *

**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	17. Information Gathering

**I'm back.**

* * *

"Ah, you recognize this, don't you?" asked Altaïr, tossing the Apple in one hand as the Templar ran out of room to wriggle away. He made it pulse, the light glow around the golden orb intensifying for one moment, and the Templar flinched as if he'd been struck. "They didn't tell you we had it, did they?"

A wave of his hand locked the door, throwing up several wards to prevent anyone from entering the room under any circumstances. He didn't like to boast, but Altaïr's magical locks could last through the explosion caused by a metric ton of C4.

He sat down in front of the Templar, pinning him to the wall with magic, and threw back his hood so that he could look the foolish man in the eye. The Apple started pulsing, as if in time with the Assassin's heartbeat, and the Templar's face morphed from plainly fearful to absolutely horrified.

This only made the Assassin's smirk wider, more vicious looking.

"We should begin now, yes?" he drawled, holding out the Apple around the Templar's face level. It pulsed a final time and the world went black for the Templar.

He appeared in a garden, mist obscuring anything past ten meters in any direction. The soft strum of many harps floated through the air, along with the sounds of feminine giggling, but no matter where he looked, he couldn't see either instrument or women. He heard the wind whistle by, but the mist remained where it was, barely moving at all.

He felt content, at peace with everything and everyone. The wounds in his body no longer plagued him with pain, as if he'd been in one of the Templar hospitals for about twelve months. He smiled, enjoying himself for a moment.

Then he arrived.

"Welcome to the Garden, Templar." Altaïr appeared behind him, just like he did in their short but decisive battle. "You're the first Templar to see it since the Third Crusade."

"The Templars captured Masyaf with the help of the Mongols, at the end of the true Altaïr's time," retorted the Templar, smug in his knowledge and superiority.

"You really think the Assassins would let our original stronghold be overrun by horse riding barbarians and a smattering of men in crossed armor?" chuckled Altaïr, waving a hand to make a pair of chairs appear between them. He took his seat, arranging his robes and armor as if he wore an Armani suit rather than spelled cloth and dragon-leather armor. He gestured to the other chair, inviting him to sit. "Search your feelings, little Templar. You know it to be true."

"The Father of Understanding has guided us and his chosen few. We have defeated you Assassins on all seven continents," replied the Templar, his voice taking on a frantic edge. "We'll finish the fight and bring peace to the world if we have to stand to the last man!"

"You preach of peace, little man, but you would oppress the people rather than free them. Controlling them to force a peace is not the way. Peace without freedom of will is nothing but slavery."

The Assassin crossed his arms and leant back in his chair, confidence exuding from every action he made. "But we are not here to debate our moral principles. I want to know why you're here."

"I put you in the tournament. That was the extent of my orders," said the Templar as he sat in his own chair, trying to create the same of air of relaxation the Assassin wore about himself. Despite his outward appearance, his mind was in turmoil. The worst part was that the Assassin seemed to know it was all just an act, judging by the smile across his face.

"I don't believe you," Altaïr said, still at ease in his chair. "You Templars always know more than what you say."

"Maybe, maybe not," replied the Templar, his tone mocking but heart thundering in his ears. "What are you going to do about it?"

Altaïr's smile grew wider than ever seen before, making the Templar feel very unnerved. He leaned forward and put a finger to his enemy's forehead. The Templar felt a slight shock, much like a discharge of static electricity, just before his vision began to dim.

As the world darkened for the second time, he hear the Assassin whisper in his ear, his tone ice cold.

"_This_."

* * *

"Altaïr said that he was going to see one of his contacts," said Alyssandra, walking into the classroom with Padraig and Piotr following close behind. "I think he mentioned that he had Moody as a relatively close friend in the briefing he gave us. I think that's who he's going to see."

"That's what you said about the last two professors we went to see," growled Piotr, annoyed. Collecting all the red marked on the list took time and fending off the questions of the three Heads of the schools was exhausting enough. "Dumbledore has been a pain and Karkaroff is an arrogant ponce. At least the Frenchwoman has accepted 'We'll explain everything soon.'"

"I'm sure this is the last one we'll go see."

The bloodcurdling scream that emanated from the office above the classroom had all three of them looking at each other in confusion.

"I think we are in the right place," said Piotr, amused at the other's reactions. He shrugged at their looks and climbed the stairs, throwing his shoulder into the door with a smile on his face.

They walked in to see the Altaïr sitting down with his legs crossed under him and a man they've never seen before stuck to the wall with magical spikes the Assassins usually used for immobilizing techniques. The sight of him in a pool of blood from several bullet wounds was not as curious as the unblinking gaze he had on his face.

"Um… Altaïr?" asked Alyssandra, pulling down her mask and throwing back her hood as she knelt beside her friend. "Are you alright?"

"He's fine. He's just using legilimency." Piotr walked forward, waving a hand in front of his friend's face. Getting no reaction, he grinned at his allies. "No dilation of the pupils, no blinking. He's busy taking a walk through the man's mind."

He jumped as his hand was caught in a powerful grip, bringing it to the brink of breaking before being used as a lever to bring him to the ground in an incredibly undignified way. The impact of the ground meeting his spine knocked the breath out of him, leaving him gasping on the ground along with several bruises from the weapons and gear he had strapped to his back.

Piotr grunted in pain as his arm was twisted into a semi-painful position, mentally kicking himself for doing what he did. _Altaïr goes from dead asleep or in a trance to instinctive attacks before becoming fully awake._

It took a second for Altaïr to become aware of the situation, which was enough time for the laughter of Alyssandra and Padraig to enter his ears before he went the extra step to break his supposed attacker's arm.

"You forgot again, didn't you?" he asked, releasing the joint lock he had on his brother's arm and using that grasp to pull him back to his feet. He shook his head as Piotr twisted his arm back and forth, trying to relieve the pain. "What happened last time?"

"You shattered my ulna," the giant Russian growled in reply.

"And you've learned nothing from that, have you?"

"I forgot."

"And you were nearly incapacitated once again," said Padraig, sliding the spikes out of the man they knew not. "Who's this, by the way?"

"Templar," answered Altaïr, his hands drifting to the hilt of his sword, only stopping for an instant over one of his many pockets. "He's out for now, but I believe he'll be coming around soon."

"Did you get anything out of him?" asked Alyssandra, sniffing the blood that had dripped from their enemy's wounds. _It has the tang of magic to it… are they copying our ways of manipulating our own bodies with magic?_

"Very much, but there can always be more," said Altaïr as he opened up a channel to speak with the rest of his brethren.

"Hephaestus, Sapte, Jacinta. Prisoner transfer from the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The rest of you, release the red listed and maintain your patrols."

Several acknowledgements were heard through his hood, whilst others merely gave a green light across his HUD. He smiled as he and other three Assassins dragged the Templar from his former office, already hearing the light footsteps of Sapte and the heavy tread of Hephaestus coming down the hall.

When he first met the tall, blue eyed, melee combat specialist/medic, he'd been surprised at his antics. But, as with all Assassins, he was never what he seemed. He acted suave and flirtatious outside serious situations, but was a force to be reckoned with in close quarters combat due to his natural ability for speed and agility.

Which is not to say he was restricted to close range, as his ability with the wrist mounted hidden gun was legendary amongst the Assassins at Langley. He also made a name for himself on many a battlefield as a medic, once again owing to natural ability. Unfortunately, his gift was only good for healing others, as healing himself took twice the effort.

While Sapte was built for speed, Hephaestus was built for power. While not as tall as the Romanian, Hephaestus was much heavier, outweighing Spate by almost fifty pounds. Altaïr was certain it was fifty pounds of muscle, seeing how the man could wield that war hammer of his with such ease. Like Sapte, he was also a master of ranged combat when necessary. His Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum revolver was never far from the mechanic.

His choice of incredibly hard hitting weaponry showed he is a firm believer in putting someone down hard and making sure they can't get back up.

Generally thought of as a bruiser at first glance, he actually was a very nice and well-mannered and easy going man, partial to music, jokes, and reading.

One of the major things that set Hephaestus apart from other Assassins is his bad right leg. While it was definitely within the Order's abilities to heal the leg back to perfection, Hephaestus had constructed a brace for the leg that made it superior to the leg of any human being. He was always tinkering with it, making it better than the last version, and was not about to give up an advantage he had just because he wasn't "perfect." As he built the brace to correct his leg, he's picked up a good amount of medical knowledge along the way, so his skills as a medic were respectable.

His speciality, however, was due to his fascination of fire and explosions. As one of the few demolitions savants, his skills in the creation and use of explosives gave them quite the edge on battlefields where collateral damage to the surroundings was acceptable.

"Sapte, Hephaestus, welcome to my parlour," said Altaïr sweeping his arm to encompass the entire room with a flourish. He jerked his head to the unconscious Templar at his feet, a look of professionalism to his face. "We need a transfer to Langley, if you don't mind."

"Templar?" asked Sapte, cleaning nonexistent dirt from beneath his fingernails with one of his custom made knives. His blue eyes shifted colors for an instant, becoming brighter, more ice like than normal, at the prospect of having another Templar under his control.

"Yes. I've gleaned a large amount of info from his mind, but I'm sure the spooks at Langley are just dying to have their hands on him."

"They will not be disappointed," said Hephaestus, his voice deep and bass. He smiled from beneath a full beard, dark brown eyes hidden beneath cowl and brow glinting with anticipation. With a small snap of his fingers, the captive Templar was lifted into the air and began to float to Hephaestus, stopping only once he was within a meter from the black and red cloaked Assassin. "I shall have him there before nightfall."

"Good, good. Al Mualim will be pleased," said Padraig, having recovered enough not to burst out laughing every time he opened his mouth. "How's the leg? Is that a new version?"

Hephaestus nodded, sweeping back the cloak to show off the magical mix of steel and leather that made other legs inferior. "Yes. Mark 7.3, actually. I had help from Muyassar, which is why you can see several new runes."

"This is all very nice and all, but shouldn't we be going?" asked Sapte, now flipping the knife from hand to hand in graceful arcs, growing larger and more complex after each pass from left to right and vice versa.

"You have Jacinta to wait for," replied Altaïr, nodding towards the doorway.

The white and purple cloaked Assassin smiled as he tossed his knife into the air and spun on his heel, turning to face the petite Assassin who entered the room.

"Jacinta, how are you?" asked Sapte, his voice changing from annoyed interested. With the sound of steel on leather, his knife fell into its' sheathe with nary a glance. "Did you have a good patrol?"

She allowed a small smile to cross her lips as the exuberant Assassin swept over to bestow a kiss on her hand, which she repaid with a quick hug. "Yes, it was a good patrol. Nothing out of the ordinary, even to our standards."

She brushed Sapte's hand off of her shoulder as she became aware of it. He'd gotten very good at being undetectable, even with the number of upgrades she had done to her rune arrays. "I hear that we are needed for a prisoner transfer. Is this him?"

"Yes. Templar plant. Said he was here to put me in the tournament and that's all." The assembled Assassins all let out a small burst of laughter at the claim. "I rather doubt it."

"Giving him to the spooks, are we?" asked Sapte, now on the other side of Jacinta with his other arm around her shoulders. He smiled flirtatiously at the smaller Assassin, who raised an eyebrow at his antics before shrugging out of the embrace. A quick elbow to his ribs had his breath out of him for a second, stalling his attempt at another sentence. "Oof! Do I at least get a few minutes with him?"

"That's up to the spooks, isn't it?" asked Piotr, handing Hephaestus a pair of gold ingots. "Some of your best, if you don't mind."

"Done," the German replied, reaching into his belt pouch with his left hand whilst placing the bars of precious metal in a hidden pocket beneath his armor. After a second or two of searching, Hephaestus pulled a cigarette case from his pouch and handed it Piotr. "Enjoy."

Piotr nodded in thanks as he pulled a single cancer-stick from the pack before he stowed the rest beneath his bracer. A snap of his fingers had a flame hovering in midair above his thumb, acting as a stand in for his cigarette lighter. He breathed, letting out of cloud of smoke as he sighed. "I knew I forgot something at base."

Altaïr walked to the door, plucking the cigarette from Piotr's lips as he passed. "I'm going back on patrol. At zero-hundred hours, we meet to discuss our plans and the info from the Templar."

"Hey, that's mi-" began Piotr, though he trailed off as his brother in arms apparate without a sound. He shook his head before pulling another from the pack, enjoying his nicotine fix. "Let's move."

The three Assassins assigned to the Templar's transportation each laid a hand on the floating Templar, turning him into a portkey. Sapte smiled as Jacinta pulled a rose from behind her ear with a look of amazement and shock across her face, having not seen the Romanian Assassin put the flower there.

"How did you d-"

They disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the Irishman, the Russian and the dhampir to go back to the office, ready to strip the place of all the Templar's trappings.

"All these dark wizard sensors have Moody's mark upon them," said Alyssandra, peering into the Foe Glass, looking at the shadows that flitted around too fast most people to see more than a blur. She catalogued the faces and turned away, inspecting the array of sensors strew about the shelves and desk. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"It's a possibility, as he knew things only Moody would know," said Altaïr, listening in to the conversation.

"Dumbledore's going to need a new DADA professor," said Padraig, withdrawing his lock picks and flipping open the trunk at the first lock to a well-organized set of books about magical creatures and potion texts. "Who gets to tell him that?"

"I'll tell him later. Focus on the investigation for now," replied Altaïr. He cut the communication, leaving the three to discuss amongst themselves.

"Alright." Padraig threw open the trunk at the next lock, revealing a different pile of books, all magical dueling tomes and defence against Dark curses. The subsequent locks were all the same, only the sixth being used for storage of his clothing.

"How many books can one man have?" asked Padraig as he slipped the picks into the last lock and worked the tumblers. He frowned, as the final lock of the trunk was much more difficult.

"Is there any magic in the locks?" asked Alyssandra, concerned.

"No, but I'm using the lock picks all the same. You never know with the Templars."

With a twist of the metal strips and a small click, the lock sprang open. Padraig threw the chest open for the final time and looked in.

"Well… I found Moody."

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**If you have any questions, comments or a random string of profanity you would like to share, hit the review button.**


	18. A Chat with an Old Man

**A very short chapter today, but it's to let everyone know that, after almost a year of in activity, Harry Potter and the Brotherhood will continue. I apologize for making you wait so long and pray you all have it in your hearts to forgive me. I prize every review and hope everyone will enjoy what is to come.**

**In summation: I AM BACK!**

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An unfortunate part of having your body's natural magic in constant flux was the effect it had on the surrounding area if you were not fully in control.

As Altaïr walked down the corridor to the Headmaster's office, scorch marks and icicles began to form is his wake. The temperature dropped twenty degrees Celsius as he passed, leaving the floor covered in ice and snow, the pictures shivering in their frames and the ceiling awash with sharp looking spikes of ice. Every so often, blackened and molten rock smoked against the sudden blizzard, caused by bolts of lightning that snapped out to touch the walls in deadly arcs.

As much as he considered it his fault that Anaïs was hurt, someone else shared the blame. Someone who should have known that the Moody he hired was not the genuine article. Someone who had known the man for several decades and would've known his mannerisms.

The gargoyle that barred his path bared its teeth at him, a rattling hiss escaping its stone throat as it crouched as if to pounce and do battle. Its wings spread wide and threatening as the Assassin approached, waiting to strike.

As soon as Altaïr was in range, the gargoyle lunged forward, aiming to clamp its stone teeth around the man's throat. In its enchanted eyes, this was not a student or teacher that was mad. This was a killer who was extremely dangerous. Normally, the wards would never have let him this far, but for some reason he simply walked through the shields and barriers the school had erected in response to the violently-tainted uncontrolled magic.

Without pause, Altaïr's hands flashed up to the gargoyle's eye level, hidden blades springing out to use the beast's own momentum to drive their points deep into the enchanted skull.

As with most archaic forms of rune-enchanted guardians, there was a globe implanted in the skull where all the rune arrays were kept, distributing the magic in a parody of the human brain.

Once they were destroyed, the stone cracked and crumbled, leaving the Assassin to walk calmly over the large pile of shattered stone and gravel. He brushed a few motes of dust off his bracers as he kicked the wall, using his magic to jumpstart the rising spiral staircase. With a groan of shifting stone, the stairs began to rise, pausing sporadically as the wards fought back against the foreign magic.

The magic of Hogwarts was strong, the accumulation of several centuries of sitting on several ley lines. It was natural magic, flowing naturally and fierce. The Assassin grit his teeth, drew on his magic, and _pushed_.

With the natural magics of the wards thrown back by the sudden flux of foreign magic, the stairs rose smoothly and let the Assassin step lightly off the stairs to approach the door to Dumbledore's office.

As soon as his hand wrapped around the door handle, his entire body froze. Multiple body bind curses wrapped around his body, halting his advance with a jarring stop.

* * *

Behind the door, seated at his desk with wand drawn, Dumbledore allowed a small smile to break over his face. _I have an Assassin trapped_, he thought with glee. He'd been warned when Altaïr left the defense classroom, magic flaring with malicious intent. He'd thought the castle's wards, ancient creations that had held off many enemy hordes, would have been able to stop a single man, but something was allowing him to slide right through the magics.

Now, he, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, had stopped a man the very Castle of Hogwarts could not.

He stopped a man who's magic, legend and reputation was impossible. Who

* * *

Altaïr sighed inwardly, rolling his eyes as he casually broke the several curses with a flex of magical might. The arctic lightning storm had flared down halfway up the stairs, leaving the staircase half covered in fresh snow, and allowed him to stop announcing his presence with crackling booms that accompanied the lightning. With a smile, he turned the door handle and pushed open the door.

He raised a hand as he walked through the doorway, casually slapping away an incandescent bolt of red magic and flicking his fingers to send the aged wizard into the wall behind him, smashing the chair he'd been sitting in.

"…how?" coughed Dumbledore, his eyes wide as he saw Altaïr calmly vault his desk and sit on its edge, as if not a care in the world. "How can you slide right past my magic and the magic of Hogwarts?"

Altaïr's smile – if one would call a feral baring of teeth a smile – was the only thing Dumbledore received as an answer as the Assassin started flicking his wrist. A shining blade sprang out and in with a grind of metal and gears. He warily flicked his eyes from the blade to Altaïr's face and back, swallowing nervously.

"How can you not know the man whom you are employing is not the real man?" asked the Assassin, his voice flat. The blade had sprung out and stayed, shining in the torchlight. Deadly and sharp. "How did you miss everything?"

"Wh-what are you talking about?" huffed Dumbledore, his breathing hindered by the unseen force pressing against his chest. His eyes bulged behind his half-moon glasses as the pressure increased.

"How did you not recognize the imposter on your staff table? How did you not notice Moody wasn't himself?"

Dumbledore mouthed words with no voice, his face turning blue due to lack of oxygen. He was sure his ribs would not hold much longer against the vice like grip he was held in. He sent a plea laced jab of legillimency, hoping that he would feel it and let up for a second, before he succumbed to unconsciousness.

With a glare, Altaïr blinked and let the wizened man drop to his knees, the magic holding him up vanishing instantly. He let the man gasp for air on all fours for a moment with his robes crumpled around him before conjuring him a chair. He sighed and levitated the man into it, his temper under control enough to talk rationally.

For a few minutes, at least.,,,

"We are going to have a chat about you letting men into your school and be around my team without making sure they are who they say they are."

* * *

Alyssandra leaned against the wall, just shy of a mound of rubble, watching her friend descend from Dumbledore's office. She was idly playing with a shard of the stone on her hand, making it flip over her knuckles as one would a coin.

"What does the old man say?" she asked, slipping into step as Altaïr walked past.

"He knew that the Templar wasn't Moody," he said, casually vanishing the inch thick layer of ice he'd left in the hall with a wave of his hand. Alyssandra and he could have walked over it with no problems whatsoever, but he didn't want a student to slip. "His idea of solving problems is a 'Wait and See' approach. We're going to the infirmary, by the way."

"Is he mad? What if he'd been sent to plant a bomb or something worse?" she pondered as they walked down the stairs, walking on air when necessary, much to the amazement of several students. "Why are we going downstairs then?"

"I needed the walk. He claimed to have set his watchdog on him."

"Oh? Ah…the Potions Master. I like him," she purred. A gust of cool air ruffled their hoods as they stepped outside, walking beneath the moonlight. "He's got such a fragrance about him. It's good to see him again. Wonder if his blood still tastes the same."

"As do I, but I don't think he's ready to be re-introduced just yet," replied Altaïr, before jumping the two hundred feet necessary to land on the windowsill of the infirmary. Alyssandra continued along the grounds, off to patrol.

The red streaked Assassin let himself in, sliding over to Hephaestus without anyone noting his arrival.

"Give me back my bloody leg, you poxy bint!" screamed Moody, who was strapped to a medical cot in the infirmary pending treatment for dehydration, malnutrition, exposure to the Cruciatus curse and several other unidentifiable curses.

Despite the watchful eye of Madam Pomfrey, Moody had made it down onto the grounds in only a bathrobe in numerous escape attempts. After the sixth time, Pomfrey had confiscated Moody's wand and prosthetic leg.

After the tenth, she strapped his three limbs to the bed and threatened him with several foul tasting potions should he attempt to escape again.

Altaïr leant against the door, smirking beneath his hood as he looked over to the screaming ex-Auror. His HUD told him he was still suffering some aftereffects of several Templar curses, painless but active, but they would be gone within the hour, thanks to a quick healing from Hephaestus once he returned from Langley.

"He'll be fine," said the German Assassin, standing behind the Master Assassin, idly tightening a bolt on his leg with a ratchet. "He is strong, despite his age."

"Yeah, I know. He thinks he's stronger than he is, though."

"He doesn't want to be seen as helpless…" said the mechanically inclined Assassin, grasping his friend's shoulder in a quick squeeze of assurance. "Do not worry."

Altaïr nodded and smiled at his friend as he spun on his heel and left the infirmary. Hephaestus always knew what to say to help his emotional state.

Unfortunately, not all was well in Hogwarts.

Altaïr mood went from cheery to gloomy in seconds, his face going from smiling to stone cold as he looked over to the bed at the end of the room.

Anaïs was stable, but still in a coma. The Assassins could heal her wounds, but not much else. Forcing someone out of a coma by magical means was incredibly dangerous, even if the magic was Assassin type. Altair had heard of several attempts over the years, but all had ended in death for the patient and occasionally for the caster.

A few lengthy tests showed that she would be able to walk again, thanks to Altaïr, but her training would have to be slowed down by a fair bit. One does not simply wake up from an assault like that and continue as if nothing happened.

_She'll survive_, he thought as he knelt by her bed. His HUD scanned her quickly, showing no changes from the last time he'd been there. Vitals as normal as can be for someone in a coma.

He sighed, rising to his feet. Being unable to help his team mates made him restless and frustrated. He needed to move, train, do something to keep his mind off things. He squeezed her hand quickly in farewell, then turned on his heel and left.

Altaïr gave a casual two fingered salute to Hephaestus as he walked out, looking for something to do. An idle Assassin was a recipe for trouble.

As he walked down the hall, he caught sight of the Beauxbatons carriage and the several pale blue figures walking to and from it. He smiled as his skin shifted, hair lengthened, scars receded and eyes lightened.

_Let's see how much she remembers…_

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